The Chance to Escape
by scathach124
Summary: Trapped in a loveless marriage with Henry Talbot and doubting her own sanity, Mary feels her life is at an end when she learns she is pregnant. Her final hope of a life worth living may rest with Matthew Crawley, but both of them will have to fight the pain of the past and the demons of the present to reach their destined, shared happiness.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello again readers with another angsty fanfiction from yours truly! The setting behind this AU is: Mary is married to Henry Talbot, has been for two years, and they live just outside London so that Henry is never far away from his beloved racing track (bleh bleh). The problem is that Mary, who married Henry on the belief that she loved him, figures out that there was very little substance to their relationship other than looks. However, things have become worse as Henry, completely oblivious to Mary's true feelings, has essentially turned into a controlling, emotionally abusive partner. Sybil lives, of course married to Tom in Dublin, and Matthew lives as well. Without giving away much to what is to come, Matthew will reenter Mary's life when she almost succumbs to depression, and helps her build a secret life away from Henry._

 _What I want to portray as the relationship between Mary and Henry is not a physically abusive one; rather, he essentially manipulates her into believing she is somehow guilty for no apparent reason, makes her feel anxious and uncomfortable in her own home, and uses the tactic called gaslighting so that Mary eventually starts doubting her own emotions_ _. Not only is this a loveless marriage, it is a marriage where Mary has very little control over her own body, her choices, and her time. I'm going to warn people right now, if any of this is triggering or makes you uncomfortable, don't read this. This is very troubling stuff, I will admit. The point is that, since Mary is not being physically abused, there's very little proof that she could use to confront Henry or get a divorce. **Emotional abuse is just as damaging as physical abuse.**_

 _Tell me what you think in the reviews, and thanks for reading!_

* * *

 ** _The Chance to Escape_**

Chapter 1

 _December 1921_

Mary sat at her vanity, one hand resting next to her hairbrush, the other across her lap. She stared straight ahead, her face completely expressionless, exposing nothing of what she was truly thinking. Nothing of her outward form hinted at her inner thoughts. Her hair was done up properly, without a single loose strand, her dinner dress and jewels were the paragon of modern fashion. She appeared to be the picture of perfection.

But she was screaming inside.

The hand on her lap clenched suddenly, her nails digging hard through the satin of her gloves. She wanted to take that hand and lift it to her flawless hairstyle, grasp a large hank of it and rip it out, do that over and over. She wanted to pound her fists against anything – a wall, the edge of the vanity, the mirror she was staring at – she wanted to smell the blood pooling across her knuckles. She wanted to claw at her dress until she was wearing only shreds. She wanted to scream until her throat burst, to cry until she became sick.

It was all becoming too much to bear. She had no outlet for her torment, no way to release the crushing misery growing inside of her day by day. Even so, the pain she could inflict on herself wouldn't amount to what she was truly feeling. She thought she might be able to fight through it, put on a brave face just as she always did – always had to – but the struggle had already exhausted her. She could not possibly keep going, not after this …

She could have borne anything but this.

Had she fully realized the implications earlier, she would have begged the doctor not to tell her husband. She had not fully processed the news earlier, hadn't let it sink in until now. She had tried to convince herself that she hadn't heard the doctor correctly, that her brain was addled, that the truth was anything but. Try as she might though, she understood what the doctor had informed her, why she was feeling this way, and her gut told her it was all true. If she didn't believe it now, then she would in a few months.

She would not be able to hide from it.

The steady ticking of the tiny clock on the vanity reminded Mary that she had somewhere to be. What she really wanted to do was bury her face in her arms and cry until she drowned in her own tears, but she knew she couldn't. She was expected downstairs at the dinner table, sitting straight-backed and without any trace of distress. She had a duty as an obedient wife, as a respectable woman of society, and right now it would be unwise to hole herself up in her room as if something was wrong.

Because he absolutely could not know that, in her world, everything was horribly wrong. He would ask questions, questions that she could not provide an answer to without him getting angry or demanding to understand why. She was afraid to tell him the truth, even though it was screaming inside her own head, straining to be blurted out at any moment. Whatever she might say about her worries, he would likely not believe her, or not want to believe her. And his physical reaction, however it manifested itself, would certainly be the worst of all, because even with her witnessing his mannerisms for two long years he was still unpredictable – and rarely in a good way.

Mary turned away from the mirror and stood up, straightening her long gown. She hadn't cried one bit, so her eyes were not red and therefore would not make her appear upset to anybody else. Tonight she looked just the same as if it were any normal evening, as if there was no bad news dragging her down like rocks attached to her ankles. She could put on the mask of a content wife, a happy mother-to-be, and no one would suspect the contrary. After all, she wore it every day.

She opened the bedroom door and walked to the stairs, as stiffly and solemnly as though she were walking to an execution.

* * *

"Darling," Henry said.

Mary raised her eyes and forced herself to meet his. It was the first time either of them had spoken aloud this dinner. The silence had been uncomfortable, but the way his endearment had sliced through it made her wish they were not on speaking terms.

Henry's lips pursed as if he was concentrating hard on the sight before him – his wife. He cocked his head to one side, and the fingers of his left hand drummed the table. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Straightening her back, Mary answered coolly, "Like what?"

The corner of Henry's mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, but Mary discerned it. "Come now Mary, don't play games with me. How can you be so … so apathetic? After all, you've just received the best news of your life. I would think you would be positively beaming."

Mary said nothing, and her eyes went back down to her plate. She could act indifferent without a problem, but to put on a smiling face now, when all she wanted to do was scream in Henry's face … she knew she couldn't manage it, and so she hadn't tried to.

"What's wrong? Are you feeling sick again?" Henry asked.

"No, I'm … I'm simply a bit tired," Mary replied.

Henry's eyes narrowed. "Is that really it?"

"Why? Does it not seem a good enough reason?" Mary said.

"Not tonight, no." Henry's voice was soft and slow, but there was a trace of indignation in his tone. "Mary, I know something is on your mind, and I would like to know why it is you are acting so glum. You've been told that you are going to be a mother, and as of now the doctor deems you to be in perfect health. Is it that you're worried for the baby?"

"Of course I'm worried," Mary said, "I know that things can go wrong at any time."

Truthfully she _was_ a bit worried. She had heard horrific stories of pregnant woman taken by surprise by a sudden complication; one moment sitting at home, perfectly fine, the next convulsing and bleeding on the floor. Her sister Sybil, trained in midwifery, had seen more than her fair share of tragedy at a delivery, so Mary had an idea of the afflictions a mother and a newborn could suffer. Even if the doctor had declared her in good health today, who could say what might come about?

"But I trust the doctor's word, and you are in an excellent condition, as he said to me," Henry continued. His eyes narrowed even more. "Unless he has told you otherwise …?"

"No, he told me the same when he was done examining me," Mary said.

"Then what is the matter?" Henry asked.

"I told you already, I'm only a little tired," Mary repeated. She was feeling herself grow more tetchy with every sentence Henry threw back at her. "Would it convince you if I said the excitement has exhausted me?"

"You must be rather good at containing your excitement so that other people can't see it," Henry retorted.

Mary reached for her wine glass to give her hand something to grasp. She felt holt inside, like a fuming bonfire had sprung up within, and Henry was methodically throwing fuel onto those flames. She sipped her drink, feeling his eyes bore into her like a hawk watching a mouse. _Just let this be over soon_ , she pleaded silently.

Henry sighed, leaning back against his chair, his hands resting on the carved arms; his posture reminded Mary of an actor portraying a Shakespearean king. "Mary, I want to see you be happy, like I know you really are. You know you can smile and act as blissful as you feel in front of me. I'm your husband, not your grandmother."

 _My grandmother has a far better character than you_ , Mary thought sourly. _She'd give you a good thrashing with her walking stick if she saw the way you've been acting towards me._

Henry's mouth twisted into a smirk, which he often flashed when he believed he was being charming. "Give me a smile Mary, please? I would like to see you smile again. You're far more beautiful when you appear happy on the outside rather than when you bottle it all in. It makes you seem so … uncaring."

In her mind, Mary imagined her hand grabbing for the stem of her crystalline wine glass, raising it high above her head, and then smashing it across the table. She could practically hear the glass shattering against the wood, the tiny shards scattering everywhere, the wine dotting Henry's stunned face. She'd be screaming at him, "Perhaps I don't care! Perhaps I don't care at all for you or for this _thing_ inside me!" Then her hand would take the knife lying on her plate and grip it as she leaned forward, the point aimed between her husband's eyes—

She jolted back to reality, but under the table her hands balled into fists. As best as she could, she smiled at Henry, hoping that this one small display might satisfy him.

"That's more like it," Henry nodded. "Though I do wish you'd let me know what is on your mind. You trust me, don't you? You will tell me if anything troubles you, anything at all."

"Of course," Mary muttered.

"Are you still tired?" asked Henry. "Do you want to go to bed early?"

"I would, actually," Mary said, thankful that he was giving her leave to get away. Though, she remembered to her chagrin, they shared a bed, and likely she'd feel him climb under the sheets next to her, too close for comfort. If only she would fall asleep before that happened. "I'm sorry, I don't want to leave you alone," she added for good measure.

"No, go and get some rest. Tomorrow I want to see you glowing like the sun," Henry said.

Mary placed her napkin on the table and stood up, not too quickly so that Henry would not realize she was glad to escape. Only a few steps away from the door, though—

"Wait. Come back here."

She stopped, turning back around. Henry's hand beckoned her towards him. Reluctantly, Mary approached him, bitter at his betrayal. _Let me go, please,_ her mind cried.

Henry took her hand in his, pulling her closer to him. His other arm encircled her waist, trapping Mary in his hold. Mary glanced nervously at the butler standing dutifully next to the sideboard, hoping he might at least give her a pitying look, but the butler's eyes were locked straight ahead, as though he was unaware of Mary and Henry's presence in the dining room. His loyalty to the family – more to Henry than his desperate wife – meant he could not involve himself in personal matters.

"You're going to be a wonderful mother, Mary," Henry said softly. "Perhaps you don't fell that way because, well, there's no child for you to hold yet, but _I_ know you will be the best mother you can possibly be. This child," and he let go of her hand to brush his fingers against her stomach, "this child will be extraordinary. He or she was created by the two of us, by our true love, and they'll grow up to be the finest boy or girl the world has seen."

He smiled up at Mary, his fingers around her waist pressing tighter, prompting her to do the same. Mary forced another smile, a disguise for her grimace as his fingers dug into her skin.

"You understand that I myself won't be tending to the baby day and night," she remarked. "Our sort of people leave all that to nannies."

"Yes, but only you can give our child a mother's love," Henry said.

 _A mother's love._ That didn't mean anything to Mary. If she had dreaded the doctor confirming her pregnancy, then she was certain she'd feel no love towards the child she was carrying. A part of Henry would live inside of it – was right now forming inside of _her_ – and how could she stand to allow another of him come into this world to torment her? She'd look at that child and see only Henry, his face, his eyes, his voice …

His hands released her and she stumbled backwards. "Go," he said, "get some sleep, like you wanted. I'll be up in a bit."

Mary nodded. "Alright then. Good night."

She hurried away, exiting the dining room without looking back. She hastened for the staircase, and when she put her hand on the bannister she realised that she was trembling, just a little bit. Had she been shaking when he had held her to him? Had he felt it?

She did not waste any time in calling up her lady's maid, removing her dress and jewels, and climbing into an empty bed. Even for a little while, she might be able to sleep without Henry lying next to her, turned towards her as if watching her sleep. The room was already well dark, as the December sky outside was pitch-black and the curtains were drawn. She lay down and pulled the bedcovers closer to her, her head turned to the edge of the bed. To face Henry, even as she slept, would only make her feel the way she had at dinner: a small, insignificant, powerless woman.

Mary shut her eyes and breathed slowly and evenly, but the minutes passed one by one and she seemed no closer to sleep than she had in the middle of the afternoon. She was lying as still as she could, underneath the warm bedcovers, but her body refused to be tired. All she wanted was to be unconscious when Henry walked in. After the way he had spoken to her tonight, looked at her through mistrustful eyes, grasped at her flesh as if he did not care if it made her uncomfortable, she did not want to see him for the rest of the night. Was it so much to ask for, after all she went through just to keep him satisfied, seeing him daily and smiling upon request? She bore his presence in her life as best as she could while still keeping on the mask of a contented wife, but only for his sake. Everything she did for him, it was to convince him that she was just as glad that she was married to him as the day the vows were read.

 _The things I do for love_ , she thought bitterly.

When she heard the handle of the door turn she went absolutely motionless, keeping her eyes closes, breathing as a sleeping person would. She listened to Henry's muffled footsteps pacing around the room, her muscles going rigid as she heard him approach his side of the bed. She winced as she perceived him throwing the sheets over his own body and the mattress sagging under his weight. Despite her instinct to shudder as she felt him inch closer to her, Mary remained stone-still.

Like a shadow reaching across the bed, Henry leaned over her, planting a small kiss on her temple. "Good night, my love," he whispered in her ear.

Mary bit the inside of her cheek, and her fingers grasped the sheets tighter. It was all she could do to keep from screaming right then and there.

* * *

 _A/N: I generally try to keep the characters 'in-character' but for Henry's case I may have to exaggerate his ugh-factors. But considering that on the show he has as much personality as a shoebox, I may actually be doing him a favor by giving him an identity. |_ :P


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

When Mary awoke the next morning, after a fitful sleep, she felt relief at not seeing Henry next to her in the bed.

It was no different than what happened every morning: he usually woke up earlier than she did, eating breakfast downstairs while she was spared the need to pull herself out from under the bedcovers to join him. Being a married woman and entitled to have her breakfast in bed was one of the small comforts she enjoyed – a few moments of solitude, a few moments to gather her courage to endure another day. She was rarely disturbed by anyone besides her lady's maid as she sipped hot tea and read the newspaper, purposefully avoiding any articles that might have to do with car racing. Henry's name was mentioned occasionally in the papers, usually immediately after a race, but Mary took no chances with that. Even the sight of his name printed in ink on the paper made her cringe.

But it was never the real Henry that was talked about in the papers – the quick photographs of him at the racetrack, smirking in another direction, or the praise that the writers gave him if he placed high – that was simply a façade meant to be attractive to the public. No one else saw what he was like at home, with nobody but Mary in his presence.

 _Henry Talbot_ , she mused one time. _Henry Two-Face is more suitable._

She tried not to let her mind jump to the events of last night as her lady's maid entered with her breakfast. On the tray was the usual fare: a pot of tea, a boiled egg, several slices of toast, a bowl of porridge. What was different today was the small folded piece of paper propped up against the teapot.

"What's this?" Mary asked her maid.

"Mr Talbot asked me to put that on your tray," was the answer.

Mary frowned. "What for? Where's he gone?"

"Into London for the day. To meet some other men from the Automobile Club."

Mary's lips pursed. "I see," she muttered.

She wasn't surprised that he hadn't told her that he was going into London for the day. He did it half the time he felt like seeing his comrades from the Club – like-minded individuals who regarded cars as the Holy Grail – and the rest of the time he gave her very short notice about it. She didn't care that he went off now and then, but for all of his doting last night it seemed odd, and just a little impertinent, that he'd disappear the very next morning to fraternize with his racing friends.

"That's be all for now," Mary said to the maid.

As soon as the door closed, she picked up the folded paper from her tray and opened it up to read. She could practically hear Henry's voice as her eyes scanned his thin, hurried scrawl:

 _My lovely Mary, I trust that you have rested thoroughly_ _from last night's exhaustion. This evening I expect you at the RAC, as you will be present when I announce our good news. I will not accept any refusal, as_ _you must be by my side as I say it. Choose something splendid to wear. – H_

Mary's fist automatically crushed the small square note into a crumpled ball and hurled it across the room. She breathed hard, her hands clenching around the legs of her breakfast tray. Her forcing herself to stay completely still was all that she could do not to fling it over the edge of the bed. Whatever appetite she had had waking up had vanished upon reading the note, and so she put the tray on the other side of the bed before slumping against her pillow.

Why did he feel the need to force her into these things without her consent? Didn't her voice, her opinion matter at all to him? No, of course it didn't – she was his to show off, to drag her to places she didn't want to be caught dead in, and if she so much as tried to put up an argument he'd treat that like a personal offense. He might be her husband, but that did not give him grounds to dictate how her day should go. It wasn't fair at all; _she_ never told him he had to be someplace or that 'no' wasn't a legitimate answer.

She hated how he had worded the one sentence, _'I will not accept any refusal.'_ It sounded almost like an underlying threat. Even if he meant nothing by it, it still frightened Mary – what might he do if she failed to show up tonight? Vulgar words, humiliation, or something worse?

Mary lifted herself up after several silent minutes of brooding and rang again for her maid. She wasn't going to eat a bite of her hot breakfast, not with the thought of tonight sitting in her stomach like bitter acid. Besides, she had a letter that she wanted to start on as quickly as possible; it had to be read as soon as possible. And with Henry absent for the day, not nearby to look over her shoulder at her written words, so much the better.

* * *

That evening, the car carrying an apathetic Mary drove up in front of the the Royal Automobile Club. For the duration of the ride from her home to the heart of London, she had sat much like a lifeless doll, not a single thought disrupting her internal peace. The early winter wind that met her when the back door opened seemed to shock her alive, but when she stepped out onto in front of the entrance to the Club her heart seemed to climb up her throat.

Knowing that she had no alternatives now that she was here, Mary walked through the doors and up the stairs to where the attendant in the top hat was standing by. He tipped his hat and removed her coat just as Henry appeared at her side. He had been waiting by one of the glass trophy cases, within some of which were his own.

"Good evening, my dear," he greeted Mary. His hands hugged her shoulders as he pulled her close to him, giving a kiss on her cheek. As she was accustomed to do, Mary returned the kiss along his jaw.

Henry stepped back and looked up and down, taking in Mary's appearance. "Be a dear and give me a twirl."

Mary obliged, feeling Henry's eyes bore through her dress and deep into her flesh. She faced him again and tried to smile as blithely as she could. He'd call her out if she didn't appear as untroubled as him.

He nodded in approval. "Quite marvelous, I must say. Congratulations, Mary. You have fulfilled my expectations."

"Do you think I'm liable to disappoint you?" Mary asked.

Perhaps Henry had caught the slightly bitter intonation she had put into that sentence; his head tilted to the side as if reconsidering his judgement. For two tense seconds Mary wondered if he would retaliate with something passive-aggressive, as he sometimes did when she acted coolly towards him. But his face lost some of its callousness before that happened, much to Mary's relief.

"I'm sorry I darted off this morning without saying a word," he said, sounding anything but remorseful. "I hope you weren't too worried about me."

"There are only a few places you could possibly be if not at home," Mary returned. "Was your day pleasant?"

"It was," Henry answered simply. He did not elaborate, and Mary did not expect him to. She never knew what exactly it was he did when he was with friends, and even though it might not be her business as a wife to pry into her husband's recreational occupations, it felt a bit wrong not to have even the faintest idea.

The both of them started off towards the restaurant, the round tables almost completely surrounded by patrons, the actual members of the club and their wives or guests. In the balcony was the band, creating a lively tune of the latest style of music of which Mary was not a enthusiast. The mood seemed tranquil for now, but the reason Mary was here tonight was the announcement Henry would make at some point. The dread of that coming moment made her feel even colder than when she had stepped out of the car to the night chill.

"How about your day?" Henry asked as he led Mary to their table. "I trust you not to have too much fun without me," he remarked with a clever smirk.

"My day was dull," Mary answered truthfully, with a gratuitous sigh. "I wrote a letter to my sister Sybil, and a quick note to my parents to let them know we're coming for Christmas."

"What did you write to your sister about?"

Mary stiffened, hoping she'd sound as innocent as she meant to. "Oh, this and that. Asking after her work, her children—"

"Did you say anything about our good news?" Henry probed.

Mary was not certain how to answer this. Was Henry luring her into a trap? Did he intend to announce her pregnancy to the family when they were at Downton for Christmas?

"I … simply implied that I had something to share when we were at Downton," she said.

"Hmm," Henry mumbled.

They sat down at their table, at the end of the room that was raised higher than the rest of the restaurant. They were in a rather conspicuous spot; Mary would have no way of avoiding the attention that Henry would draw towards her. Why did he insist on making a show of this?

"When do you plan to make the announcement?" she inquired.

"The president will come in to welcome the patrons and their guests. After his little speech, I'll make the announcement."

Mary pulled off her long opera gloves with unsteady hands. "And when will the president come in?"

"Not long," Henry said enigmatically.

Mary nodded, feeling her heart thud in her chest. The dim orange light in the restaurant weirdly reminded her of the fires of hell – nothing but heat and humiliation awaited her in this room.

The waiters handed them menus and Henry ordered a wine that Mary had a partial distaste for. Despite her calm outward appearance, she couldn't quell her pounding heart, nor ignore the nauseating feeling in her stomach. She was surrounded by dozens of happy couples, smiling and chatting amicably, but she felt so alone with only Henry to talk to, to say sweet but false things to. She hardly knew anyone from the Club, so the hope of someone coming over to the table and giving her respite from small talk with Henry was all for naught.

 _You have to bear it_ , she told herself harshly. _The evening won't last forever. You will survive._

But the urge to scream was telling her otherwise.

Aside from when the waiter poured their wine and took their orders, Mary was left undisturbed with Henry. Every minute that ticked by seemed to drag on, Mary's agitation swelling bit by bit. Henry's voice sounded like he was talking through a thick glass barrier, yet she still managed to respond to any questions he posed or mutter her assent whenever prompted to agree with him on something. The restaurant was a dizzying blur, the only sensations she was conscious were her thudding heart and her throbbing head.

Even before their first dish arrived, Mary could not take it. It was just like last night – the compulsion to escape from her husband's strict gaze overtaking her thoughts. She had to get away, but discreetly, so that Henry would not suspect something was wrong.

"What are you doing?" Henry asked as she stood up from her chair.

"I hope you'll excuse me for just a moment," Mary said. "I'm only going to the powder room, to freshen up."

Henry furrowed his brow. "I don't see the need for you to freshen up," he objected. "You still look quite presentable … is something wrong? Are you feeling ill?

"No – no, not at all. I – I thought …" Mary stammered to counter Henry. Why did he feel the need to keep her under his watch like a naughty child?

Henry shrugged, waving her away with a light chuckle. "Never mind the real reason. Don't be long; the president may come in at any moment."

Mary nodded, then turned away and made her way to the powder room.

However she managed to make it there without getting lost or stumbling blindly into something she could not figure out; the whole world was hazy, the faces of other people featureless, and she seemed to move down the corridor and into the powder room like a ghost. It was completely empty, which gave her some comfort – she felt safer now that she was not at risk of being watched by someone.

She staggered over to the sinks, grasping at the edges of the basin as she leaned over, heaving. The queasiness in her stomach, similar to what she imagined morning sickness to be like, had escalated suddenly, making her feel very weak all over. Her breathing sounded closer to wheezing, and as her stomach roiled inside of her she wondered if she might actually be sick. She considered forcing herself to vomit, but suddenly the reminder that _Henry wouldn't like it_ popped into her head _,_ and that was enough to stay her hand.

She remained standing there, hunched over the sink, trying desperately to calm her insides. After a few minutes her stomach finally seemed to settle, but her hands still shook against the cold ceramic and her breathing was ragged. Her strength left her body in a rush and she slid down to the floor, her hands still grasping the edge of the sink. An unbidden sob shook her to her core.

 _What have I done to deserve this?_ she asked herself anxiously. _Is this God's doing for something I did wrong? But what did I ever do to deserve this?_

Mary could not conjure up any past wrongdoing that could possibly account for her personal torment. Was it really punishment or merely bad luck? All of this sickness in her heart, this constant pain … why was she suffering it at all? She was confused with her own heart, her own feelings towards Henry.

 _Goddamn it, you're not supposed to feel this way!_ Her hands pounded against the sink as if to hammer the sentence into her head. _After all he's done for you! He's given you all you ever wanted!_

He was everything she had wanted in a husband, apart from title. He was good-looking, well-liked in society, rich, and he had promised he loved her more than anything. It was a marriage based on love, or it had been.

So why did she now want to scream so badly, to tear away from her life with him? What had changed during these past two years? Was there still any love between them?

Her hands still trembling, Mary climbed to her feet. She turned the faucet on and let the water run until it was ice-cold. She wet her hand and patted around the nape of her neck, hoping that it might reduce the feverish heat inside her. She still felt somewhat sick, but not to the extent that she couldn't present herself accordingly.

She looked up at her reflection in the mirror. The whites of her eyes were tinged with red. She looked well exhausted, as though she hadn't slept for days. A clammy hand reached up to her face and brushed aside a single stray hair from her forehead. _So tired_ , she heard the voice in her head murmur, _always so tired_.

Taking another moment to ensure she looked as though the world were right, Mary returned to the restaurant. A paunchy man she recognized as the president of the Club was standing up at his table, speaking in a husky voice that echoed across the large room. Mary breathed a grateful sigh; she hadn't missed Henry's announcement. Not that she wanted to be present for it, but she wouldn't be subjected to Henry's anger later.

The president kept talking for a short time, blathering on about things of the least interest to Mary. Too much about the revolution of automobiles – they might as well have been God's gift to mankind the way the members of the Club went on about them. Mary hung back in the corridor to the powder room until the president had finished with his speech, and while he received his obligatory applause she made her way back to her table.

Henry was sitting back in his chair, glaring at her. His annoyance needed no words for Mary to understand how close she had cut it. She tried to avoid his eyes as she pulled out her chair, but he immediately stood up and grasped her arm, preventing her from sitting back down.

As the applause rang out he hissed, just loud enough for only her to hear him, "You took your time."

"I'm sorry," Mary apologized hastily.

"You were lucky you came back at the right moment. I won't look like a fool in front of these people on account of you," Henry snapped.

"You look rather close to one holding me like _this_ ," Mary shot back, attempting to wrench her arm out of Henry's grasp.

But there wasn't anyone close by who noticed the two of them; all eyes were on the president, who was tapping his wine glass for silence again. That was the cue: Henry let go of Mary's arm as quick as lightning, and raised his own glass. A hush settled across the audience, and Mary's heart resumed its frantic thudding.

When the restaurant was completely quiet, Henry started to speak. His resounding voice sliced Mary's ears, and she imagined herself sinking into the patterned carpet like a spectre.

"My beloved wife and I have some rather thrilling news to share with the Club," Henry revealed, glancing lovingly at Mary.

Blinking back the tears that pricked at her eyes, Mary beamed proudly, lifting her wine glass as well.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I'm going to clarify that even though this pretty much goes AU from 2x8, Sybil and Tom still move to Dublin, marry, and have a child in May 1920. They went back for Mary and Henry's wedding sometime between September and December 1919 (still working that out). As it happens, since Matthew is not there to defend Tom from being humiliated by the family, the relations between the Bransons and the Crawleys are still strained._ _Naturally, I don't think Henry would help much with that. Didn't see much of him being a social justice warrior .. ever._

* * *

Chapter 3

The post was still sitting on the kitchen table, untouched since Tom had brought it in just after breakfast. He had dashed off to work immediately after, and with his wife Sybil juggling the task of gathering her things for work and feeding Malachy before taking him to the neighbour's for the day, no else one had bothered to sort through it.

It was only when all the family were back home, with Sybil preparing supper and Tom sorting through papers on the table, that the mail was noticed again. Sybil paused from preparing the colcannon to look at the small pile of envelopes that Tom had slapped on the kitchen table in the morning. She shifted through the envelopes, glancing at the return addresses, fairly unperturbed at what they had received today.

She handed one to Tom. "There, from your cousin in Cork."

Tom looked at the envelope for a second and then put it to the side. "I'll read it later. I want to finish this before supper."

Sybil gazed at her husband with a concerned expression. "I wish you wouldn't be so hard on yourself with your work. You were up so late last night with all this." She gestured to the mess on the table with the wooden spoon in her hand. They were files, reports, documents that Tom had lately been bringing home to scrutinize with tired eyes.

"I want to hand in my draft before we go away for Christmas," Tom explained. "I doubt your parents would much like me hauling these 'incriminating' reports into Downton."

" _I_ doubt those papers would be sufficient enough to have them accused of being republicans," Sybil pointed out. Tom had to share a laugh with her.

She looked at the last envelope; an almost imperceptible frown crossed her face. Tom noticed how still she had gone, like she had already read some bad news.

"Who is that from?" he asked.

"Mary," Sybil answered dully, her gaze still fixed on the small envelope. Whatever she was thinking as she looked at it, her eyes did not betray her.

She went and set it down on a table in the sitting room, next to her wicker sewing box. "I'll read it after supper, when Malachy is asleep."

Tom nodded as Sybil returned to the pot of colcannon.

Supper was a quiet affair. At Sybil's rather insistent behest, Tom finally removed his papers from the table, and the small family sat down to a simple but very enjoyable meal. Sometimes Tom teased Sybil about how she once could not even boil an egg or make a proper pot of tea, though Sybil would respond about how Tom couldn't fry a tomato without burning it. Tom had to concede that, although having been raised in a household where everything was laid out for her on a silver platter, Sybil was wonderfully proficient at managing their home along with enduring long hours at the nearby hospital.

They had only been married for two years, but they had been the happiest years of either of their lives. The previous year, in May, Malachy had been born, and their perfect life had only gotten more satisfying. Despite Sybil's late nights at the hospital and Tom's unending stress as a journalist with too much on his plate, they were content with the lives they were leading, and there was nothing in the world worth trading them for.

"When exactly will we be going?" Tom asked. Sybil was sitting across from him, and Malachy in his chair between them. She was in the middle of spoon-feeding the little boy.

"To Downton, you mean?" she asked.

"Where else? China?"

Sybil sighed. "Well, I'm sure you'd enjoy a voyage to the far east better."

A faint glint of amusement appeared in Tom's eye, but it was the very real dread of going back to Downton that kept the smile from forming.

Sybil thought about his initial question. "I'll book the crossing for the eighteenth. One week before Christmas."

Tom nodded in an oddly grave manner. "And we'll be there until after New Year's," he said as if it was a prison sentence.

Sybil set the spoon down and gave her husband a look of displeasure. "Tom, please don't be this way. It's not worth it," she admonished gently. When Tom did not immediately respond, she continued, "I know you aren't excited to go back—"

"Now that's an understatement," Tom remarked. He sighed and leaned forward, hands clasped together on the table. "Sybil, I know you love your family, and I know you want me to love them as well. But after all that happened the last time we were there, for Mary and Henry's wedding …" He paused, searching for the right words so as to not upset Sybil.

"You don't want to go through all that again," Sybil answered for him. "Tom, I understand how patronizing it was – I was there."

"And I'd appreciate not having to go through it again," Tom said. "I doubt your parents, especially your father, have changed their attitude about me. Mary's wedding was two years ago, and we haven't been back there since. I bet they'll still see me as the primary suspect if something catches on fire."

Sybil's mouth was set in a thin line. "I think I could convince them otherwise if that happens."

"But what I want them to see," Tom went on, "is that there's more to me than they think. All they see is a revolutionary. But I won't act like I'm one of them either. I could never bring myself to to that."

Sybil reached across the table and placed both her hands on top of Tom's clasped hands. "You don't have to prove anything to them. It's their affair if they don't understand how real peoples' lives work. And they'll come around to you eventually. It's just that …"

She trailed off. Tom asked her, "What is it?"

"Perhaps, and please don't take it the wrong way, perhaps you shouldn't talk so much about what's going on here in Ireland. It'll be easier that way," Sybil suggested.

Tom opened his mouth to argue, but Sybil prevented him from getting a single sound out. "I know it's all so important to you, but this is not the time to start any arguments. It'll be Christmas then, and we don't need incentive for more rifts."

Malachy burbled, reaching for the spoon that Sybil had set down. Tom did not say anything for a few moments. It was hard feeling like the odd one out with the Crawley family: not necessarily a stranger, but certainly not a fully comfortable presence. But even though his political views were important to him, his wife's happiness was of much greater value, and he did not want to sully the already strained relationship between her and her family.

It was high time that the subject was changed. "Are Mary and Henry going to Downton?" he asked Sybil.

"I should think so," Sybil answered. "They went last year. I expect Mary confirms it in the letter."

She hadn't thought anymore about Mary's most recent letter, still lying unopened by her sewing box. She knew she'd have to read it as soon as she could. Some sisterly instinct was nagging at her brain, urging her to rip open the envelope and read what Mary had written about. Whatever might be written on the paper, Sybil did not believe that it would be cheery to know. None of the letters Mary sent to her were cheery in mood.

But this most recent one, she was almost dreading to open, as if she already knew what Mary had written.

Sybil had the task of putting Malachy to bed first. He still slept in his parents' bedroom, but Sybil knew one day he'd have a room of his own. It was strange to think how quickly he was growing, how quickly the time was passing. He was just starting to walk, but all he could manage to say was an incoherent pronunciation of 'mama.' It didn't seem like such a long while since Sybil had woken up in the dead of the night to his hungry cries. That time was past, thank goodness, but even so she felt like she never wanted to let go of that tiny baby boy who had been placed into her arms for the very first time. That day, holding her small yet healthy baby, had made her as happy as she had been on her wedding day. Raising a child with Tom meant the world to her.

She came back downstairs immediately afterwards, finding Tom sitting in his chair by the fireplace. The letter was right where she had left it. Sybil wished she could ignore it, put it off for a while and do a bit of sewing or even go to bed early, but the white envelope on the table was as glaring as the sun on a clear day. It could not be brushed aside for another time.

"I made you a cup of tea," Tom said, pointing towards Sybil's chair. A steaming cup was sitting next to the letter.

Sybil nodded. "That's kind of you."

Sitting down in her cozy chair, the fire crackling close enough for her to feel the heat, Sybil glanced down at the envelope. The address faced up, written in Mary's delicate hand.

Tom was watching Sybil closely, leaning forward with his hands clasped and resting against his knees. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Sybil insisted. "I just … I don't think it's good news."

Tom frowned. "Why do you say that?"

Sybil glanced at the letter, unsure of how to answer. Tom wasn't aware of the content of Mary's previous letters; she didn't think it right for someone other than herself to read them. The letters were only ever addressed to her, and she felt she'd be betraying Mary's trust if she spilled her secrets to somebody else, even if it was only Tom.

But Mary at the very least tolerated Tom, and Tom had nothing against her. He had nothing to gain from knowing what detail's Mary shared about her life. If Tom knew, then that was one more person on Mary's side.

"You have to swear to me, Tom," Sybil said seriously, "that you won't breathe a word of this to anybody, especially not Mama or Papa. Mary's told me to keep quiet about it."

Tom looked as if his wife had just told him it was _she_ who was in trouble. "What's going on? Has something happened to Mary?"

Sybil swallowed, hesitated to say anything. She fingered the corner of the envelope. "In a way … she's not alright."

Tom stood up from his chair and knelt beside Sybil, taking her hand in his. "Whatever is the matter with Mary, I can tell it's troubling _you_ as well. You have to tell me what it is, love." He paused, realizing that Sybil's hand was trembling. "How long has this been going on for?"

Sybil's shaky fingers dug into Tom's palm. "A while. I think about six months after they married … she wrote saying that, somehow, things felt different between her and Henry. That he wasn't the same person she married."

Struggling to comprehend, Tom asked, "Do you mean that she doesn't love him anymore? That she regrets marrying him?"

"I suppose now she does regret it a bit," Sybil professed. "After all, they did marry in such a rush. He had the papers in his pocket when he proposed, and it was only a week later that they …"

At that last thought, she nearly cracked a smile at how quickly she and Tom had packed their things and made the trip to England just to see Mary walk down the aisle. It had been a hectic time, but moreover strange: Sybil had trouble understanding just why Mary had married Henry so quickly. They hadn't known each other for very long to her knowledge. She couldn't even recall where they had met.

"But that's not everything," she continued. "She tells me that she feels … powerless … when he's around, and even when he's not around. In one of her other letters she said that he hurts her."

"Does he … beat her?" Tom asked fearfully.

"No, not physically hurting her," Sybil said quickly. "Mary's not a fool; she'd go straight to the police if that were the case. It's when he talks to her that she …" She began to recall what Mary had written before. "She says he makes her feel inferior, and wrong about her opinions, and like she's not really his wife but his pet, and … there's so much else." She let out a groan, frustrated that she couldn't express Mary's plight with better phrasing. "It's difficult to explain, and I doubt she's telling me everything about what's going on. She says she's scared, and at the same she doesn't know if she's making it all up."

 _It might just be all in my head_ , Mary had written about three months ago. _Sometimes he acts like such a prince, and I may only be misunderstanding what he says to me. But nevertheless I feel like I'm not supposed to be myself around him, that I can't say what I would like to him. Oh Sybil, I can't even understand my own mind …_

Sybil looked down at the envelope in her lap, still unopened. It was doing no good for anyone putting it off. "I have to read this. Perhaps you'll understand it better then."

She cringed as she ripped open the crisp white paper and pulled out the folded leaf inside. With the utmost dread, she began to read.

 _Darling Sybil,_

 _I sincerely hope that all is well with you and your family. I look forward to seeing all of you at Downton for Christmas, and in particular to meet Malachy. I still find it unbelievable that we have not seen one another since the wedding; it seems like much longer, and yet I feel like little has changed, at least for me._

Sybil stopped, scanning the lines for somewhere better to start. The tone of the beginning sentences were so stiff and formal, like a poor attempt to convince her that everything was fine. Or perhaps, she imagined, Henry had been nearby as she was writing, peeking over her shoulder with undue interest. Most of Mary's letters started like that, always with the formalities that might throw Henry off. An unwarranted invasion of privacy – on no grounds should a husband ever cross that line.

That was not the case for the remainder of the note, she found, as she read the next paragraph. As she progressed, the thin handwriting became shakier, and the image of Mary's hand trembling as she held the pen to paper clouded her mind.

 _I received news yesterday that I cannot, no matter how hard I try, be glad to know. The horrible truth is that I am pregnant with Henry's child. But to be honest I feel no joy with that knowledge; it's difficult to say it, but I don't want this child at all. It feels dreadfully wrong not to be as blissful as I know you were when you were with Malachy, but that is my predicament, and I doubt anything will sway my mind. It may very well be heartless to be this way; even so I have no love for it at all. Henry, naturally, is overjoyed, and so I have to act the same. I can't tell him the truth – I fear how he would react to that disclosure. He'd accuse me of being a liar, or unfaithful, or disillusioned!_

 _Sybil, please believe me when I tell you that I am scared. I know I sound mad, but I don't want it to live. If it's born, if we became a proper family, I don't think I could bear this life anymore. I'd be held down even more than I already am. I would never be able to leave him, not if there was a child to bring up. Not only would I still be Henry's husband, but I'd be forced to act as a mother to someone that has a part of him inside. How can I be expected to love our child if it wasn't even conceived with love?_

Feeling the tears prick at her eyes, Sybil tore away from the words on the paper. _Oh Mary, I'm so sorry_ …

With gentle hands, Tom removed the letter from Sybil's grasp. He read it quickly himself, his expression going stony with each line. When he was finished with it, he folded it into a square and set it back on the table, his arms moving sluggishly as if enervated by Mary's disclosure. Neither of them could say anything for a moment. The fear and the hopelessness in the letter were too palpable.

"I can't bear to think of it," Sybil murmured. "Two years of married life, and now this. I knew this might come eventually, but still … she must feel so alone."

Tom's jaw clenched, and his own eyes seemed watery. He had never been close to Mary, but reading that letter was like finding a desperate message for help from a person held hostage. "It sounds so awful. Not to love your own husband or child."

"It's not a child yet," Sybil informed him. "But it has a good chance of becoming that. Mary's a healthy woman, and unless she becomes ill or has an accident, I doubt she'll lose it. And I sincerely believe she won't love it when it's born, not if she doesn't love Henry … not anymore."

She looked at the folded letter, considering reading the rest of it as Tom had, but she couldn't stand it anymore. She was already close to tears as it was, and there likely wasn't anything else important; Tom would have mentioned it. Knowing her sister was trapped in a loveless marriage, with only her to spill her secrets to, broke her heart. For all of the nasty things Mary had done to her as a child, for all of her grand behaviour, none of it should have merited the life she was condemned to.

"I just don't know what to think of it," Tom said, his hand reaching up and rubbing the back of his neck like there was a strain. "They _looked_ happy enough when they were married. And when I met Henry I thought him a decent man. I wonder what's changed with him."

Sybil's eyes wandered to the fire flickering in the grate. She clearly remembered Mary at her wedding, standing beside Henry in her white hat and dress. Yet with her back towards the congregation as the vows were read, Sybil could not see the guise on her face. Had she been stoic, as she often was, or was there the hint of a smile? Of course she had been smiling as she turned around and exited the church with Henry on her arm, but if she hadn't been everyone would have realized something was wrong. But what if there had been, even on that supposedly happy day? What if Mary's doubts had started then?

"Maybe he hasn't changed," she surmised. "Maybe he's the same man she agreed to marry. Only she never realized what he really was like until too late. Like he wore a mask to woo her, to make himself more attractive to her, and then he took it off once they got used to each other."

"And he wouldn't recognize that he's acting like a bully towards her? Or that she's not happy?" Tom swore a nasty word in Irish under his breath, and Sybil did not even have the heart tonight to swat him upside the head for that.

"Nobody knows it when they're the villain to somebody," she told him. "He probably thinks he's the most loving husband any woman could dream up."

Tom sniffed. "He's not a very good judge of character then."

There was a moment of silence between them again. When Sybil broke it, her voice sounded hoarse, hushed as if still in astonishment at Mary's revelation.

"We have to do something. We have to figure out what exactly is going on. They'll both be at Downton for Christmas; I can try and help Mary then, understand everything that she's feeling."

"Maybe I can bash some sense into Talbot," Tom said in a half-serious tone. "Or would that not be polite enough?"

Sybil's half smile lightened the low spirits among them. "You giving him a good thrashing would be rather welcome if his behaviour is as vulgar as Mary describes it."

Her face fell again. "But will it be enough? Apart from giving Mary a chance to tell somebody how she truly feels, face-to-face, what else can we do? I don't want to simply comfort her, I want to give her _a way out_. She's not going to find happiness with Henry at this point."

Tom sighed and rubbed his tired face. "I would have suggested trying for a divorce, but odds are that won't happen unless pigs fly."

Sybil was puzzled by this. It wasn't like him to be so despondent; Tom was stubborn, a tough fighter. "Why do you say that?"

"I was only around Henry for a very short time, but I realized relatively quickly that Henry's a clever man. And believe me, I hate to say it, but he's almost matched with Mary in that aspect." Tom winced slightly, his own insight disagreeable to himself. "He's also rich, well-liked by the public, and I imagine knows plenty of important people. If she tried to make an argument against him, or filed for a divorce, anything she said would be invalid. And it goes without saying that he'd never consent to one."

Sybil had figured that was the great dilemma Mary faced. She knew that Mary would never harm herself in order to implicate Henry in physical abuse – she wasn't as deceitful as that. On top of that, Henry could twist her words and make her doubt her own perceptions; he was already doing that to her. And never under any circumstances would he consent to a simple divorce – in his mind he adored Mary, would never let her go for anything. It was a wretched reality to accept, but for the time being, divorce was not an option for Mary.

She got up from her chair, and Tom stood up from his spot on the floor next to her. "We can't do anything about it now, not until we get to Downton. I'll write to her tomorrow, say that we'll help her in any way we can. But for now, we should go to bed, and talk in the morning if there's anything more to say on the matter."

Tom took both of Sybil's hands in his, leaned his head forward, and kissed her on the lips. "We'll find a way," he promised. "We'll help Mary however we can. If the two of us can't, who can?"

Sybil smiled; he _was_ right. After all, _they_ had fought tooth and nail to be together, despite everything that had been thrown in their path. Now they had achieved happiness – so why couldn't they do the same for Mary?

She reached up and caressed Tom's cheek, looking into the eyes that gazed back at her with such tenderness. How lucky she was to be wedded to someone who never made her feel sad or cold, whom she missed even when they were separated for a moment, whose touch she never flinched at. She wanted Mary to feel the same way with someone the way she felt with Tom.

In her heart, she had known from the beginning that Henry was not that someone. There was a spark between him and Mary, but not a fire as was with herself and Tom. She knew she could not have spoken out against their marriage then, but now she wished she had talked a bit of sense into Mary. She hadn't known then that Henry harboured domineering inclinations, but perhaps she could have convinced Mary to hold off the wedding for a little while instead of rushing through it so suddenly. Any number of things could have been done by anyone to prevent this, she thought woefully.

Now was not the time to look back and regret, however – Mary was most certainly doing that all by herself. No, the important thing was to keep her from sinking further into her misery, keep her fear from overtaking her senses.

Because Sybil was afraid as well – Mary was no longer herself, and what sort of acts would her current state of mind drive her to?


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Mary and Henry caught the early train to Downton in hopes that they might arrive in time for tea. As was usual for December, the sky was grey enough to compel anyone to wonder if it would snow soon. There was still a week and a half before Christmas day, but neither of them had been to Downton since last December, and Mary's mother had requested that their stay be lengthy. Mary didn't see what use would come out of refusing – either way, she'd still be sharing a bed with her husband, still sitting at the table with him, still tied down to him. It made no difference where they were.

At least she'd be in a familiar place that felt like a proper home, where there were happier moments to look back on. And there were plenty of people there whose company Mary could seek out instead of just Henry. She was looking forward to seeing Anna again, of course. The relation between her and her current lady's maid was strictly professional, far unlike the companionship she had had with Anna. And she missed seeing Carson every day as well, even when he stood stoically in the background at dinner – there was always that warm twinkle in his eye when she passed by him, undetectable to anyone else. She remembered how sorry she was to leave him behind, but much as she would have liked to had brought him with her down to London, both her papa and Henry would have raised objections to that. Carson too, certainly would have declined; he was not very fond of Henry.

For the first few days, the company of Edith and her grandmother would keep her occupied and with luck out of Henry's sight, but the person she was yearning to talk to most was Sybil. She trusted her, probably more than anybody in the world. But she and her husband, along with their year-old son, would not arrive at Downton for a few days. In the meantime, she'd have to settle with people who didn't have a single inkling of her suppressed emotions, who wasn't aware that she was currently carrying a burden.

But right now, on what was sure to be an unbearable train ride, the only company she had was Henry's.

They were the only ones sitting in their first-class compartment, much to Mary's disappointment; with someone else present, Henry would have been more likely to withhold his more intimate comments. She had brought with her a book to ward off any conversation with him, but before she could make any progress, he disturbed her reading.

"Put that down and talk to me," he said insistently as the train picked up speed.

"What is there to talk about?" Mary answered coolly, her book still open in her hands.

Only a second-long pause, and Henry reached across the gap between them and plucked the book from her hold. Mary's mouth hung open in astonishment. She stared, frozen, as Henry stood up and put the book on the luggage rack above his seat.

"What was that for?" she cried.

Henry rounded on her. "Mary, if you think I'm going to sit here with nothing better to do than twiddle my thumbs and watch you read, then I have to assume you are more tired than you appear."

Mary was, to gently put it, appalled at him, more so than usual. That was almost a blatant insult, adding to the hurt she felt by having her distraction forcibly removed from her. "I'm perfectly alright, Henry," she said, barely concealing her anger. "Is it not excusable that I don't want to engage in conversation at the moment?"

"No, it is not excusable," Henry replied bluntly. He sat back down in his seat, looking directly at Mary. She could hardly look at him in the eye without feeling the need to burst out crying or to slap him across the face. Any man with a smidgen of thoughtfulness would have left her in peace.

She stood up and made to reach for her book on the luggage rack, but Henry's hand on her stomach halted her. Not even her thick coat could prevent her from feeling the pressure of his palm pressing into her as if to push her back into her seat. Her level of discomfort was almost as great as if it were a complete stranger touching her.

"Sit down," he said sternly. "You're too worked up, and you're only going to make things worse if you fight with me."

He was staring at her so hard, so coldly, that Mary lost the courage to stare back at him. She drew away, the back of her legs hitting the edge of the seat as the train rattled. Stiffly, she lowered herself down, ashamed that she had let Henry cow her. She had once been proud of the fact that no one could daunt her, but Henry had managed to do what she thought was impossible.

"Mary, I don't like to feel like I'm being ignored, by you of all people especially," Henry explained. "Try to understand me, please. This holiday is the chance for the two of us to make up for all the time we've spent apart, and I don't want to waste any opportunities."

He gave her what was meant to be a sympathetic look, perhaps to gain Mary's pity, but she wasn't looking directly at him. Her gloved hands were grasping at the fur lining of her coat as she said, only half-confident as she spoke, " _You're_ the one who goes out almost every day."

"I can't help that," Henry said ruefully. "I have obligations that I can't ignore. That's why I don't want to spend this trip sitting in silence with you. You must feel the same way; surely _you_ miss me when I'm not with you?"

"Of course I do," Mary replied. The lie felt thick on her tongue.

Henry appeared to believe that she had just made his point for him. "So I don't understand why you want to waste your energy reading the damn book instead of having a nice chat with me."

 _Because I don't want to, that's why_ , Mary's mind snapped. Was it not possible for her to engage in any personal activity without requiring his permission?

Regardless of that, she sighed and forced herself to look back at Henry, making her eyes plead for forgiveness. "You're right," she said. "I'm sorry. I was acting rather inconsiderate."

Thankfully, that was all that Henry needed. His mouth stretched into a loving smile, and he leaned forward to take Mary's hand in his. He did not notice her minute flinch. "Thank you, my darling. I don't want to start this holiday on the wrong foot."

Mary returned her own reassuring smile, even though she wanted to bat his hand away from hers. She had had enough of his uninvited touch for one day.

"So, now seems a good time for you to educate me on all those relations and family friends coming to Downton for Christmas," Henry said, leaning back and leisurely crossing his legs. "I could never keep all those names straight in my head. Lord and Lady Bennett or Buckingham, either Sir or Baron Henley – really, how do people do it?"

 _You can differentiate automobile makers but not simple peerage titles_ , Mary thought with discontent. _I doubt you even_ try _to keep it straight in your head._

"Well, I hope you remember that my parents are Lord and Lady Grantham," Mary stated, "and my grandmother is Lady Grantham as well. And my sisters are Lady Edith and Sybil—"

"Oh, I'm not an imbecile, I remember _that_ much." Henry rolled his eyes. "Though I don't see why I'm not yet on first name terms with your parents; I've been married to you for two years for God's sake."

"It's how _they_ want you to call them," Mary contended. "It's respectful for their station."

Henry scoffed. "But it sounds so stiff and grand. I don't call _you_ Lady Mary, do I?"

"Because we're much more … personal than that," Mary resolved. "Anyway, you probably won't need to call Sybil a lady unless Papa is around. Now that she's Mrs Branson she's not partial to being referred to with a title anymore."

"Well, I suppose that makes it a tad easier for me," Henry shrugged. "And her husband … Tom, is it?" He waited for Mary's nod. "He's not called anything special, I hope."

Mary shook her head. "No, he's just Tom."

"Good. You know, I rather like the man. I didn't get to know him half as well as I would've liked when he came over for the wedding," Henry mused, his eyes wandering to the window. The outer skirts of London were racing by in a blur.

Mary found that somewhat amusing. "Did you get to know him well at all? I assumed you were mostly discussing automobile machinery and not much else, let alone politics."

"It was a good conversation starter," Henry said, "and his political views aren't as much of a bother to me as they are for the rest of your family. Perhaps we'll go down to the pub at some point and have a good long talk. We'll have lunch, or a drink … or something."

His eyes glazed over, and for a moment Mary wondered if he had finally lost interest in continuing their discussion (and, strangely, she found herself incredibly uneasy by the way he was speaking regarding Sybil's husband. She had hardly seen either of them speak more than twice). But his snapped around again, and the inquiring look in his eye returned.

"Who else will be there?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," Mary admitted. "I think Mama will have lists of who is coming for dinner on certain nights. On Christmas Day it is usually just the family, but we have close friends and other relations who come on New Year's Eve."

Henry nodded slowly. "What about the heir? Will he be there at any point?"

Mary's heart skipped a beat and her breath seemed to freeze in her throat. The blood drained from her face, making her seem as colourless as the grey winter sky outside. Every part of her body went numb. A wave of memories surged through her brain in an instant – stolen glances, brief touches, words spoken with sincerity, all buried for so long that their re-emergence almost overwhelmed her. She felt like a fire had just sprung up within her, a blaze so strong and eager to burn that she had to contain it so it would not consume her.

The fire, the memories, seized her with such eagerness that her mask was in danger of slipping off.

 _This is nonsense_! She could smack herself for being this way all of a sudden, when it had been years since she had given a single thought to – she forced herself not to think of the name, of the face, the voice. But there was still a shadow, the memory, that told her that _he_ was still very much in her mind. He, along with the regrets and evocations that surfaced after so long of being tucked away with little hope of reappearing, had been waiting in silence, in darkness, somewhere within her.

Now was not the time to upset herself with those thoughts, however. She did not want to, but she had to let his memory go. She had to push him away, push any echoes of her past life back into the recesses of her mind. It could do her no good to bring those back, not when her instinct was to let them engulf her. She blinked furiously, fighting back the tears that were stinging her eyes – what would Henry say if he noticed? He'd ask, and probably he'd make the connection between his mention of the heir to Downton Abbey and her abrupt display of emotion. No matter what she might say, she knew she would not have an adequate explanation for it.

"Darling? Did you hear me?" Henry's voice, though gentle, brought her back down to earth, reminding her of her place on the speeding train. It was like waking from a pleasant dream, one that even if she could not remember too well what happened nonetheless left her with a puzzling elation.

Perfectly composed, no trace of a tear about to fall down her cheek, Mary replied, "I'm sorry, I was … trying to remember if anyone had mentioned him coming to Downton."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Considering that he's the heir, I would think he'd be there all the time."

"He used to but …" She stalled, hoping that the memories would not cause her any pain – a hope that she knew was futile. "He moved down to London when he married, into his wife's family home, once of the terraces by Regent's Park."

He was so close by, in the same city, yet they had not even once crossed paths or caught sight of one another across the street. It did not feel that way to Mary – to her, they were a world apart. In fact, it felt like he didn't properly exist except in her memory, like he was only ever real in her mind.

"Right," Henry murmured. "He wasn't there last year, though. Because his wife had died recently."

Mary nodded. "Yes. Lavinia … she died the previous November. In childbirth."

Both of them were silent, Mary's recent condition coming to both of their minds. Modern medicine was capable of so much, and yet there was still so much that it could not prevent. Even though Mary was strong and healthy now, not even Henry had the power to confirm that she would remain safe.

After all, the doctors had assured Lavinia Crawley that, despite contracting Spanish flu, enough time had passed since then and she could safely carry to term. But fate had turned the tables and one month before she was due, she was transported to the hospital in the middle of the night, losing and regaining consciousness in quick succession and bleeding heavily. The long-term effects of the illness had left her severely weakened, and her gruelling pregnancy resulted into a disastrous, agonizing labour. They had tried to save the baby, but it was dead before it left her womb. Lavinia's heart gave out minutes later. Isobel Crawley had given Mary those horrific details at the funeral.

That was when she had seen him last – standing at a graveside, a broken man. She could barely bring herself to look at him. She hadn't said a word to him before or after the service. Inside she was hurting too; seeing him beyond anyone's help, including her own, had torn her heart in two. How badly she had wanted to run to him, to take his hand, to look him in the eyes and beg him to share his pain with her. But she had let Henry lead her back home, leaving her with no clue as to when she'd see him next, if ever.

The onerous silence was shattered by Henry straightening up in his seat and clearing his throat. Mary met his eyes only long enough to give him an encouraging smile. " _I'll_ be alright, I promise. You needn't worry about me."

"That just gives me more reason to be concerned. I have two people to be worried about: you and our baby."

"It's hardly a baby yet. And I certainly don't look pregnant in the slightest. I won't show for a few months yet."

Her hands were resting on her lap, folded in front of her markedly flat stomach. How would it feel to have a bulge in her, like a large wad of fabric bunched up and sewn into her? She had never thought to ask her mother or anyone else about what it would be like living with an enlarged abdomen. She'd never forget the sight of her mother pregnant with her sisters, hobbling around Downton with a belly that grew larger and larger until the doctors ordered her to bedrest. It had been amusing to Mary then, but now that it was happening to her, she didn't find any aspect of it humorous. And with her stomach swelling by the week, she'd have the constant reminder of what was growing inside her.

"You know, I was just thinking – perhaps your sister the nurse will give you some advice for the coming months," Henry said, as if he had figured out that Mary was thinking about her pregnancy.

"I'm sure she will. She's been through it all once herself, and she's seen it plenty of times at her hospital." Just to relieve Henry of some of his worry (though how much did he really have for _her_?), she added, "I'll have a talk with her when she arrives, ask her for all of her advice on this matter. Heaven knows I need it."

"Then if anything goes wrong, I'll know who to blame."

It was like a blow to the chest. Mary's entire body went hot with outrage, her hands tensing around the folds of her coat. Was it not enough to demean her; he had to go ahead and slander Sybil? Mary scowled at Henry, ignorant to his libel, and spat out, "How dare you! How can you say such a thing about my own sister! Do you realize just how vulgar that was—?"

"Mary, calm down—"

"I won't, Henry, it was a cruel joke!" Mary nearly shouted. "If you think I'll simply brush that off …" Her mouth felt dry, and suddenly she couldn't blurt out any more angry words. She sat, trembling, wishing she had the courage to rush out of the compartment and seek out another place on the train.

Henry coughed out a short laugh. "Mary Mary, must you really be so sensitive?" He was grinning despite the glare his wife was giving him. "You're acting like a child."

" _I'm_ the child?" Mary retorted. "You just insulted my sister for no good reason. Did you assume that you'd sound clever because you—?"

Quicker than she'd ever seen him move, Henry shot up and lunged forward, both of his arms thrusting out and gripping her shoulders. Caught off guard so violently, Mary's breath froze in a silent gasp, her eyes involuntarily widening at the sight of Henry leaning over her like a wolf who had just felled prey. His jaw was rigid, and when he spoke his voice was strained, though still dangerous.

"Listen to me." He paused between his words, as if hammering them into Mary's brain. "Don't argue with me anymore. It's not going to get you anywhere. If you stop being oversensitive about every little detail, then this trip will be far more pleasant for the both of us."

He breathed in deeply, trying to keep control over his temper. He wasn't grasping at her throat or her face, but Mary felt like she was being smothered all the same.

"Do you understand me?" he asked. He paused, waiting for an answer.

Mary felt his hot breath on her face as she nodded.

At once, Henry's face softened. His hands loosened from Mary's shoulders, but instead of letting go of her completely, he stroked her arms – his idea of a forgiving gesture? If it was, Mary wasn't any more inclined to forgive him than she was a minute ago. She was still shaking somewhat, but only on the inside. She had been so afraid that Henry would do worse than solely grab her shoulders. That was the quickest she had seen his temper escalate – it wasn't the first time he had raised his voice at her, or touched her without consideration – but her instinct to recoil and shield herself as Henry rushed towards her was something new. The train compartment they were in had normal dimensions, not too narrow, yet with Henry looming above her, his hands gripping her shoulders, she had had the same sensation as being locked inside a narrow box.

After a long moment of silence, during which Mary took to regain her calm demeanour, Henry stepped back, finally removing his hands from Mary's arms. He brushed his fingers through his dark hair. He has the countenance of a schoolteacher whose patience was being tried by a troublesome student.

"I'm going to presume that it is your hormones or whatever that are making you act this way. You need to be careful and not let them get the better of you."

"I know," Mary gulped. "I'm sorry."

Henry waved off her gratuitous apology. "It's fine. You're not yourself. But you can't let it happen again, for everybody's sake."

He turned away, sighing as he collapsed back down on his side of the compartment. "This may be partly my fault as well."

"What do you mean?" Mary inquired, trying not to sound too curious.

"I was foolish to think we ought to get to Downton before tea; I shouldn't have booked such an early train. I should have allowed you to get some more rest." Henry slumped, rubbing his hand over his eyes.

"That's not the pro—" Mary protested.

"Yes, _it is_ ," Henry declared. "You're tired and worked up, and I'm only distressing you."

He stood up again, reaching up to the luggage rack and picking up the book he had taken from Mary. "Here, you can have your book back."

He handed it to Mary, and she took it promptly. "Thank you," she said tersely.

"I'll leave you alone now, give you time to settle down," Henry said with equal curtness.

He slid open the door to the corridor, but paused, gazing down at Mary. "I do love you, you know. I only want what's best for you."

Mary did not watch as he stepped out of the compartment and disappeared down the corridor, likely in the direction of the lounge car. It didn't matter much to Mary where he was going or what he was hoping to do, but she thought sullenly, _I hope you drown in your drink_.

Now she was by herself in the compartment, and Henry's short absence would give her a chance to compose herself. She had been positively fuming at his remark towards Sybil – he knew well just how accomplished of a nurse Sybil was, despite being so young. He knew from Mary how she had cared for the wounded soldiers when they were convalescing at Downton during the war, and how she had remained awake for days to tend to everyone who had fallen ill when Spanish flu had reached them. Her hard work was more deserving of praise than anything Henry would ever lay claim to, no matter how many races he won. What made him believe his crude quip was worth saying aloud?

It was times like this when she wondered what she had seen in Henry in the first place to make her think that he was worth marrying. Of course he was remarkably handsome, quite tall and charming, and when he spoke he was more than matched for her level of wit. In the beginning their banter had been harmless, and there never a rude word spoken between them …

Or was there? Had he ever said something that should have provoked her into turning her back on him, that she had ignored simply because she was attracted to him? Mary racked her brains for a moment like that, but she couldn't isolate any such incident – not one that she could clearly recall, at least.

What was bothering her just as much as his comment was his accusation of her being 'oversensitive.' Had she reacted improperly to it, despite her reasonable disapproval? The more she tried to understand it, the greater her confusion became.

This was the sort of problem that she had encountered earlier on in the marriage, when his words started to truly bother her. He'd tell her that she was taking him much too seriously, that if she didn't let go of it she'd corner him into starting an argument. Mary was in doubt of her own reasoning, her own instincts, what was right and wrong.

Pushing her book aside, Mary stared at the empty seat on the other side of the compartment. A terrible though had occurred to her. _Am I really losing my mind? What if Henry's been in the right all along, and I've been wrong about everything this whole time?_

She was doubting herself. And that was supposed to be impossible. Lady Mary Crawley did not doubt her own mind.

It was all because of Henry. It was only well into her marriage, when she was long past the point of no return, that she began to have these impressions. Nobody else made her feel that way in her lifetime, compelled her to wonder if her judgement wasn't fair. Over and over again she'd tell herself that it was not her fault, that it was Henry saying those horrible things, but as time went on she lost confidence in that fact. She didn't want to believe that she was calling her feelings into question, but the more she tried to resist, the more her inhibition escalated. Each day she remained with Henry did to her mind the same thing the thunderous ocean did to a rock on the shore, wearing it away little by little.

How long would it be before she really did lose her sanity? Or had she already lost it?

The train rattled on towards Downton, steadily and smoothly, but for the entire journey Mary never forgot her anxious frame of mind.

* * *

 _A/N: Writing Henry like a total prick is like venting out my anger for the debacle of the series. Though at the same time I feel so guilty because I'm raking one of my favourite characters through the coals. Perks of being an angst writer, I suppose._


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: If the thought of self-harm is potentially disturbing or triggering to you, reader discretion is advised for the following chapter.**_

* * *

Chapter Five

At some point during the train ride, Mary slipped into a doze. When she woke up, the train was near Downton. Henry had returned to the compartment, his face obscured by an open newspaper. She turned to look out the windows, and at once she recognized the sparse woods and open fields of Yorkshire. The sky was an iron-grey with snow clouds. Her heart lightened at the sight, even though it was hardly prepossessing, for it meant that she was almost at the place she called home. No matter where she lived now, she would always consider Downton to be her home.

As the train drew up to the station, the first snowflakes began to flurry down, a mild wind carrying them down the railway. When Henry opened the door to the platform and helped Mary out, she shuddered at the biting cold and drew her fur-lined coat closer.

"Come on now," Henry said, hooking his arm around hers and leading her down the platform. "Let's find that car your parents sent."

Before long, the two of them were sitting in the back seat of the car Lord and Lady Grantham had sent to collect them. They were driven through the small, familiar village, unchanged as far as Mary's eye could discern. There was the open green, the schoolhouse, the cottage hospital where cousin Isobel was likely still heavily involved in. They passed swiftly by the church where she and Henry had been married, only days after he had proposed.

"What's the point of delaying things?" he had asked. "I have the documents right here in my pocket."

Mary had put up no objection after that. Was there room for refusal at that point?

When the car passed Crawley House, Mary ducked her head, looking down at the dark interior of the car. She hadn't been inside that house for years, even though Isobel Crawley still lived there. For some reason, she couldn't bear to look at it. It was like a reminder of her old life, but not in the same way as Downton was. More like it served to remind her who had once lived there, but no longer, of chances she might have taken … it was cruel how her own mind made such connections. She didn't deserve it.

On the long stretch towards the manor house, she asked Henry, "When do you think we should tell everyone about the baby?"

She was still bitter about him telling the automobile club about her pregnancy without even allowing her to write to her family about it first. She _had_ told Sybil about it, but she was the only one – Henry wanted it to be a surprise for when they came for Christmas. Why did he feel the need to control who knew about it? It wasn't his pregnancy, it was _her_ pregnancy: she was the one vomiting every morning, who would be fighting through pain and discomfort that wouldn't be worth it in the end. He would not be physically effected in the slightest. Was he just doing this so he could still be in control of yet another aspect of her life?

Before Henry could answer, she suggested, "I'll ask Mama about when it is just the family dining. That will be best, I think."

"Why when it is just the family? Why not when all their friends come round for—?"

"Because I don't want their to be some great fanfare about – about the baby. It's not such a big deal," Mary retorted.

Henry looked like a dog who had been recently fed and was still begging for food. "Mary, that's not right at all. This is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me – besides my marrying you, of course. Why shouldn't we make a big show of it?"

His eyes narrowed subtly, daring her to come up with a worthy answer. Mary opened her mouth, but for a few seconds no words could make it past her lips.

She managed to stammer out what even she thought was a rather weak argument. "It's just that … if something were to happen to it … wouldn't it be such a disappointment to have to tell everyone about _that_ then?"

Henry scoffed. "Mary, don't think about anything that could potentially occur to the baby, you'll only cause something to happen that way."

"And I don't want to tempt fate by believing that everything will go perfectly," Mary countered, "because it never does. Nothing is perfect."

" _You_ are perfect, my darling," Henry said, giving her a kiss on her cheek.

 _I'm really not,_ Mary wanted to tell him. _I'm so far from perfect_.

Henry let out a sigh, the kind that indicated he was going to compromise grudgingly. "We can announce it tonight to your parents, and then on New Year's when they host that grand party that they always do, we announce it again. Does that sound alright?"

Mary would rather only announce it to her parents, if she had to tell anyone about her pregnancy at all, but she nodded, knowing that was the best thing Henry was going to offer her on the matter. "Yes. That sounds fine."

Henry kissed her again, this time turning her head so that their lips were pressed together. Mary endured his display of affection with concealed disdain. Did he believe that she was always ready for a kiss?

"Like I said before, I don't want any quarrels between us on this holiday. Peace on earth and good will toward men, as they say."

"Of course. There won't be another bad word between us," Mary said, wondering herself if that was a vow she could keep.

"There had better not be," Henry said.

It was always Mary's fault, evidently; Henry was a godsend in his own eyes.

The manor house came within sight as the car travelled down the driveway. Just as Mary expected, the family and the servants were lined up at the front in their usual form, the way that they always welcomed visitors. It felt so odd, being treated as a visitor rather than a woman returning to her childhood home. There were the maids and footmen (only two, shockingly enough), Carson and Mrs Hughes to the right of the front door, and to the left were her parents and Edith.

When the footmen opened the car door Mary was the first one out, striding over to her mother with open arms. "Mama, it's so good to see you."

She felt easier being embraced with familiar, loving arms. Her mother kissed her, saying, "It feels like it's been forever. I'm afraid I'll never be used to my daughters being so far away from home."

"You still have Edith and Papa to keep you company, remember?" Mary said.

She sidestepped to greet Edith next. Mary couldn't believe just how glad she was to see her, even though it was a pity she was still living here, unmarried.

"I'm happy you're back," Edith said. "It'll be nice to have some new people in the house. You must promise to tell me all about your London life."

"We'll have plenty of time to catch up on each other's lives," Mary replied.

Henry came up from behind and shook first Papa's hand, then Mama's. "It is such a delight, Lord and Lady Grantham, to see you both again," he said. "I can't tell you how pleased we are that you've invited us here."

"We wouldn't have it any other way," Papa said stiffly.

If he was trying to rebuff Henry, Mary knew it wouldn't amount to much. Henry wasn't fazed by the cold formalities that characterized the older aristocratic generation. His aunt was Lady Shackleton, a friend of Granny's, so he had had his brushes with unfriendlier gentlemen. Besides, Henry simply wasn't an easy man to intimidate.

Stepping into the familiar foyer, Mama said to Mary, "There's tea in the library. We were hoping you wouldn't be too tired since you must have have to get up early to take the train."

"No, I slept for a little while on the train. Will Granny be seeing us later?" Mary asked hopefully as a footman, whom she did not recognize, took her coat and hat.

"She'll come by for dinner tonight," Mama answered.

Mary nodded. "That's good to know."

"It is good to know," Henry said, no doubt having heard Mary and her mother talking. "Because Mary and I have some news to share, and we'd like the whole family to be with us when we reveal it."

Mary forced a smile as Henry placed a hand on her shoulder. Her mother's eyes brightened, as if she had already guessed what the good news was. "Heavens, you mustn't hold us in such suspense," she laughed.

Inside the library, the family helped themselves to tea and sat down on the couches by the fireplace. It was generally only small talk between the Crawleys and the Talbots, often with a long silence between the brief topics. Mary was still uneasy from the incident on the train, and the cordiality which Henry spoke with to her sister and parents did nothing to help put that morning out of her mind. If only they could catch a glimpse of what he was really like to her, when no one else was closely watching. Her papa's mouth right now was set in a thin line as he listened to Henry talk: what would his face be like if he caught Henry in the act of harassing her?

She had considered many times telling her parents about Henry, but when she had first decided, only a few months ago, to tell someone about everything it hadn't even crossed her mind until much later, after she had written to Sybil. Of course she trusted her parents and knew that they wanted her to be happy, but this was a problem she just couldn't bring herself to speak to them about. She couldn't put her finger on why she thought that, but by this point she had reconciled herself to never even dropping a hint about Henry's bullying.

"Mary has told us you're doing well in the races as of late," her papa said. The mention of her name brought Mary out of her inattentiveness.

"I have," Henry affirmed, setting down his tea cup on the side table, "and I'm glad Mary's made mention of it."

"Well, they don't report such things in the Yorkshire papers," Mary said. "This isn't a county for car racers."

"Do you go to every race?" Papa asked her.

Mary was about to answer, but Henry spoke first. "Of course she does. She's my biggest fan. I doubt I could enter a race without her support."

 _Just how much of my support do you need, if I can hardly stand those noisy, smoky functions?_ Mary thought.

Even if Henry wasn't involved in racing, she still found it appalling that people made a sport out of driving cars at breakneck speed, not to mention the risk of crashing or the engine going up in flames. Because Henry was so popular at the races, Mary was in turn an admired woman in the circle of other women whose husbands were racers, but she felt like the only one who dreaded being at the track.

Obviously Henry had no idea of her reluctance – she always smiled through the heat and noise, chatting with everyone, giving him a kiss before and after he went onto the track. It made for a good show, he told her. The audience liked seeing him with his adoring wife.

"How could I not be there?" she said. "What kind of wife would I be if I didn't show up?"

Henry chuckled lightly. "A rather poor one, I think."

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Quickly, Mary asked, "So what has been happening here? How are the tenant farms doing?"

Even talking about something that she held little interest in was better than hearing Henry gloat about his accomplishments. The Downton estate was the topic of conversation for much of the rest of tea, and eventually the family parted ways, next to reconvene at dinner. The snow was falling steadily outside, the lawn already graced by a thin layer of white. Mary would have liked to take a walk alone through the gardens, to clear her head before dinner, but she decided not to risk catching a chill in the bitter weather and went up to the bedroom. Henry settled in the library with a book.

All of their suitcases were already in her old bedroom, her lady's maid currently in the process of unpacking. It was a small comfort to be in her old room, but at the same time knowing she'd have to share the bed with Henry made her wish she was put in one of the guest bedrooms. It didn't feel right that he had to invade a space that reminded her of her former life.

"I'd like to take a bath before I dress for dinner," she told her lady's maid.

"Very good m'lady, I'll have that ready for you shortly," the maid replied.

Henry would not dare bother her while she was naked in a warm bath – it was the sort of privacy that he never went so far as to infringe upon. Well, as of yet he hadn't, and Mary dearly hoped he'd never try to in the future.

Her maid filled the bath promptly and helped her shed her heavy winter garments. When she lowered herself into the warm water, she felt truly relaxed for the first time in several days. The excitement of preparing for the trip to Downton had not allowed her much peace, and especially after the iciness between her and Henry on the train, she needed to feel the skin-tingling heat of the bathwater on her skin, spreading warmth through her veins and diffusing the tension within her entire body. It was the first moment of that day that she did not feel like she was being watched.

Mary closed her eyes and tilted her head back against the rim of the tub, the only part of her body that remained above the surface of the water. At first she lay unmoving, but after a few moments her arms began to move languorously through the water. Her hands roamed around her body, and she imagined them to be the hands of somebody whose touch was welcome on her skin. When her fingers traced over her stomach she did not even think about Henry's child forming inside of her. Around her hips, over the edge of her thighs, her soft flesh tingled under her fingers.

She did not pause to think about just what she was doing. She didn't give a second thought to anything when her fingertips crept towards her groin, towards that mysterious area meant for only for carnal knowledge. Had she not been so lost in her reverie, she might have remembered that her husband had touched her there, penetrated her, on numerous occasions, and she would have shuddered violently and broken the trance. But not the faintest recollection of that came to her mind. She was too fixated on the imaginary fingers of a truly loving man brushing across her flesh. It was a fantasy that possessed her.

She went on feeling herself for a long time, the water undulating with her movements. The world seemed to disappear around her, time standing still. She felt herself sinking into a dream-like state, barely conscious, aware only of the touch on her warm, wet skin.

Then she shot up, the return to reality like a bullet lodging into her brain. Water splashed over the rim of the tub onto the floor as her limbs jolted about. She sat sputtering, panting, spitting the wet ends of her hair out of her mouth.

She hadn't been sinking into a dream, she had been sinking into the _bathwater._

Mary coughed repeatedly, forcing all the water from her throat. Thankfully she hadn't soaped herself up yet, or else she would have swallowed the unclean water and have that nasty taste on her tongue.

All of a sudden, she remembered what had happened to her mother during her final pregnancy, shortly before the war against Germany had been declared. Mama had been some time pregnant, but that came to an abrupt end when she had climbed out of the bath and fell hard onto the floor. The son she had been carrying was lost.

Mary lay completely motionless in the bathtub, the water around her settling so that it was as still as a millpond. She began to think.

The piece of soap, sitting on the tray beside the bathtub…

She'd certainly hurt herself when she hit the floor, but would it be enough to expel the unborn child from her? It had happened to her mother, but she hadn't purposefully been hoping to lose the baby. She hadn't realized what was happening, hadn't been able to brace herself for the fall. Mary wondered if, because she knew what she was doing, she'd instinctually brace herself and not hit the floor hard enough.

But still, she could try.

Her hand plucked the bar of soap from the tray and plunged it into the bathwater. She held it down for a few minutes, until she was sure it was moist enough to easily slide across the floor. When she lifted the bar back up it was slightly mushy, and when she dropped it beside the tub it landed with a soft _splat._

Seeing the pale-yellow mound on the floor, droplets of water dotted around it, was enough to send Mary's heart pounding. Just _how much_ would it hurt to slip on it and fall down onto the hard floor?

Not enough to compare to what she would feel in giving birth to Henry's child.

Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as she lifted herself up, slippery hands gripping the porcelain edges. Mary felt sick suddenly as her heart thudded in her ears, but she ignored the subconscious warning. She hoisted one leg up over the rim and let her foot hang right over where the bar of soap was. She didn't know whether to look or not; after a few indecisive seconds she decided to shut her eyes tight. Her other leg was still in the water when she started to lower her foot towards the floor, leaning to the side—

The door opened. Mary's eyes flew open.

"M'lady, are you finished already? You haven't been in for very long."

Mary froze, her eyes fixed on the soap on the floor. "I … I dropped the soap. I was going to get it."

"Well here, I'll pick it up for you. Oh dear, the floor's all wet. You could've slipped and hurt yourself."

Mary pulled her leg back into the tub and sank back into the water. "I know," she muttered.

Her maid handed her the soap. "Let me help you with your hair. You should have said before that you wanted it washed. But at least you'll be all nice and cleaned up for tonight."

* * *

When Mary came downstairs, Henry was waiting for her in the great hall.

"There you are," he said. "The others are in the drawing room, with cocktails."

"Is Granny here yet?" Mary asked.

"She is," Henry answered.

He looked her up and down, inspecting at the dress and jewels she wore. "It wasn't quite what I expected you to wear for announcing our splendid news to your family. I thought the occasion called for something more … impressive."

"I'm saving my finer wear for when guests come by," Mary explained. "Besides, it's only an announcement to the family. We don't make a big show of things if it's just us."

Henry did not appear to agree with her point, but he did not put up an argument. "Come along then. Say hello to your grandmother, and the sooner we can get into the dining room, the sooner we can make our grand announcement."

He moved off, and Mary followed him into the drawing room, where inside her parents, Edith, and her grandmother were waiting. Her grandmother stood and opened her arms, and Mary came over and embraced her.

"My dear Mary, it's been far too long," Granny said warmly. "I've a good mind to upbraid you on the fact that your letters have become few and far between." With a glance at Henry and that faint glint of disapproval that was all too familiar in her eyes, she added, "Though I suppose your husband wouldn't appreciate me for that."

"Mary has a healthy social life," Henry countered, as if those few words could convince Granny in the slightest. "Although I'm not too pleased to hear you're neglecting your grandmother," he said to Mary.

"Oh never mind that, she's not legally obligated to do so," Granny waved off. She touched Mary's arm tenderly. "Though I'd like to hear once in a while how you are getting on. You must tell me what has been happening down in the jungles of London."

"Don't worry Granny, there'll be plenty to discuss over dinner," Mary told her.

Presently, Carson entered the drawing room and announced dinner, and the party filed into the dining room. Mary was glad to be home at Downton, and to see her grandmother again, but now all she wanted to do was go back upstairs and climb into bed, but no doubt Henry would keep her here at least until they made the announcement (and how long would he wait before he decided the time was right?) She had nearly spoiled the announcement at the automobile club, and he wouldn't want to be alone when he repeated it to her family. He wanted to do it, as he put it, "properly."

In the meantime, she and Henry brought Granny up to speed on their life in London. Her grandmother listened patiently through Henry's drivel about his automobiles and his colleagues at the club, and for the most part he also described Mary's daily life, making it sound like a rather envious thing to be had. He went on for a bit until, thankfully, Granny cut in.

"Mr Talbot, I think Mary is quite capable of dictating her manner of living to us by herself," she said in the succinct manner she often used towards people that she did not hold in high regard.

That was enough to silence Henry, though Mary could sense he was rattled at having been told off by someone whom he could not rebuff. With Mary he could always have the last word, but he knew better than to try and remonstrate with the Dowager.

Lady Grantham smiled and broke the suddenly tense silence following the Dowager's barb. "I've heard that there's some rather exciting news to be shared by the two of you," she said to Henry and Mary.

"There is," Mary confirmed. "We wanted to wait until we were here before we announced it to the family."

"But Sybil and Tom aren't here yet," Edith remarked. "Shouldn't we wait until they arrive?"

"Now that we know that there's some great revelation to be made I doubt any of us can wait much longer," Lady Grantham said. "We can tell Sybil and Tom as soon as they get here."

Edith looked towards Mary, expecting her to put up an argument, but it didn't matter to Mary – Sybil already knew, after all.

"Alright then," Lord Grantham said, "what is this big announcement?"

Mary anticipated that Henry would be the one to say it, but he gave her an unpleasant surprise. "Go ahead Mary. You do the honors."

The table was silent, awaiting the announcement with bated breath. Even the footmen and Carson seemed eager to listen. It seemed that everyone had already guessed what the news was, but they wouldn't go ahead and blurt it out themselves. Mary could not attempt an escape now – it would be obviously timed, and Henry wouldn't allow her to leave until she had said it.

It was worse than when she stood by him, and smiled as he made the announcement to the automobile club. Now, she'd be the one instead to say the damned news, to force the falsely happy words out of her own mouth. It was like she was being forced to confess something she did not want to admit was real. Could she even manage do it without sounding unconvincing?

"Darling, we're listening," Henry probed.

Mary swallowed hard, lifting her head as high as she could. She tried not to look directly into anybody else's eyes. Underneath the table her hands gripped the napkin on her lap.

"I am – that is, Henry and I – are expecting our first child."

As she expected, there were gasps of delight from her mother and Edith, and an enthusiastic, "How wonderful!" from her father. Mary, once more obscuring her true feelings, put on an excited smile. But all of the subsequent congratulations sounded muffled, every inch of the dining room blurry, and through the rest of the dinner nobody noticed that she did not say another word.

The night went on like a hazy fog, a dream that Mary could recall nothing of later, until Granny decided to make her exit at the end of the bridge game the ladies were playing in the drawing room. Lord Grantham and Henry had remained in the dining room with cigars for some time, and had only just come into the drawing room.

"Mary, why don't you be a dear and see your grandmother out," Lady Grantham suggested.

"Cora, there's no need to tell your daughter what to do, she's a married woman now," Granny remarked.

"Oh, I don't mind. I'll see you out," Mary said, jumping to her feet.

At this, Granny didn't put up any resistance. "Alright then. Escort me out like a gentleman."

Together they left the drawing room, but when they were far enough away so that no one else might hear them, Granny stopped and spoke quietly to Mary.

"Actually, I'm glad that it's now just the two of us," she said, "because I wanted to inquire about something."

"What is it?" asked Mary.

Her grandmother paused for a second, gathering her words. "Well, naturally I'm happy for both you and Henry, but – and please don't immediately jump down my throat – I want to be sure it is something I should be happy about."

Mary feigned uncertainty as best as she could, though she imagined her mask slipping away. "What do you mean? Of course you should be happy. I know I am."

"Yes, but if there was something that you found at all troubling, you would say so, wouldn't you?" Granny asked.

Mary couldn't think of the right thing to say at first. She couldn't tell what Granny was hinting at, if anything. Had she noticed something between her and Henry?

"Of course I would." The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could fully comprehend what her grandmother had implied.

Granny patted Mary's arm and gave her a reassuring smile, something that Mary was often privy to. "Just remember that. The things about to come for you will be very trying indeed."

Was she only talking about her pregnancy, or something more? Mary wasn't sure, and her grandmother didn't give her a chance to figure it out as she approached the footman waiting for her with her coat.

It wasn't right to keep people in the dark, least of all her parents, and she knew that. But she just couldn't bring herself to say anything. She felt that, no matter where he really was, Henry was standing right behind her, his ears tuned to everything she said, his eyes always trained on her.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

The next few days that passed were uneventful, and for Mary it was just as dull at Downton as it was back in London. There wasn't much planned until the week of Christmas, around the time when Sybil and Tom would arrive at Downton. Until then Mary sought quiet places to read or write, preferably away from anybody else, though that was a harder feat to achieve with Henry chasing her down much of the time. It was becoming too cold to take long walks far from the house, although at times she felt she would brave arctic weather just for some peace.

No matter for how long she stayed at Downton, walking into the familiar rooms and old-fashioned grandeur, unchanged since she was a young child, she still felt rather alienated. She was different – a married woman, expecting a child, bitterly unhappy – and so it seemed even the faces in the paintings looked at her differently, like she was stranger they disapproved of. When she sat down in a chair it was with a small degree of hesitancy and stiffness, like a guest unsure of if he should be sittind down at all. Even being in her old bedroom did nothing to put her mind at ease, and surely now that she was sharing her bed with someone else she felt more out of place.

Was there nowhere she could feel like she belonged? Where she might take off her mask and not need to smile for the benefit of others? Right now, there did not seem to be such a place.

It was exactly one week before Christmas, the day that Sybil and Tom were due to arrive. For the morning, Mary settled herself on one of the large red couches in the library, a newspaper in her lap, but for the most part being ignored. Mary's mind was on other matters: what exactly was she going to say to Sybil about the baby, about Henry? More importantly, what were they going to do about it?

She heard footsteps approach the library behind, and Mary turned around, half-expecting Henry coming to find her. But it was only Edith, whose company was a hundred times more welcome than Henry's in Mary's opinion.

"Sybil and Tom's train gets in before noon," Edith mentioned "Will you tell them about the baby at luncheon?"

"I'll probably have to," Mary said, eyes fixed on the newspaper. "Mama would be rather cross with me if I didn't say anything."

"Henry too, I imagine," Edith said.

Mary looked up sharply. "What do you mean by that?"

Edith frowned. "I only meant that – oh, never mind." She sat down at Papa's writing desk. "But I was talking with him at breakfast earlier."

"And what did he say?" Mary feigned disinterest, but she was curious to know what Edith and Henry could possibly have to say to each other. Unless Henry had been leading a one-sided conversation and Edith was too polite to interrupt him.

"He told me that it was getting to be rather tiresome, having to drag out your excitement about the baby," Edith explained. "He said you're too used to hiding your emotions, so when you're happy about something you don't show it. Makes you seem blasé about it, that's all."

Mary was silent, imagining Henry saying those things out loud at breakfast, without her knowing and therefore not afraid of her reaction. It would not be worth anything to confront him about it later, unfair as it was to allow him to get away with saying such things.

"It'll be nice having Sybil here again," Edith said casually. "It'll feel like old times."

"Not exactly like old times," Mary corrected. "Too much is different about our lives now, it won't feel at all like before."

Her voice was rising, making her sound more upset than she wanted to let on. She flipped a page of the newspaper, silently praying that Edith would leave her alone.

But a thought suddenly struck her, and before she could think a question burst out of her mouth. "Will Matthew be here at all?"

Edith turned around in her chair. She looked almost shocked that Mary had asked about Matthew. Mary herself was apalled at her own inquiry. What had possessed her just then?

"I don't know for sure," Edith replied. "I remember Mama sending him an invitation to come up for Christmas, but no one's told me if he decided to come up. He ought to get away from London, come back here for a little while. It must be rather lonely for him there, without Lavinia and no children to watch over."

"Does he not come here for visits?" Mary asked. _This is absurd, I shouldn't be asking about him!_

Edith shook her head. "Not anymore. It's quite sad, really. It's been more than a year since Lavinia died, but he doesn't seem to be trying to make a life without her. Just sits down in his office in London and works."

In Mary's head came the image of Matthew sitting at a desk in a dark room, perhaps in the middle of the night. He wasn't doing anything, not writing on something or even looking at anything in particular. He was just sitting there, as still as a statue, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing. That was a horrifying image for Mary to imagine.

"Do you ever see him?" Edith asked.

"No," Mary choked out quickly. "No, I've never seen him in London."

"Have you ever thought about going to see him?"

"No, I haven't." Mary noisily folded the newspaper shut. "I'm not going to bother him. And frankly, you should know when to stop bothering me."

She stalked out of the library, immediately regretting her behaviour. Edith didn't deserve it – she had only been thinking of the obvious: Mary lived in London, so did Matthew, surely they would have crossed paths at one time or another.

Not at any time since Lavinia's funeral had they seen each other. But Mary wished she had, even just for a single second, seen a glimpse of him from across the road or from a window in a dimly lit house near Regent's Park. Perhaps it would have reminded her that there was someone in the world who had never given her cause to be scared or ashamed.

The phone in the front hallway was not being used at the moment. Just for a second, Mary entertained the notion of picking it up, requesting to be put through to the house near Regent's Park or his office. But the thought of hearing his voice actually frightened her, not because it was menacing in any way, but because she knew she wouldn't be able to control herself if she did.

Even now there was an ache in her heart from just thinking about him.

* * *

As the car drove down the driveway to Downton, Sybil held Malachy up to the window. "Look out there, Malachy. See that big castle? We're going to be staying there."

The child, being only a year and a half old, hardly knew what he was supposed to be looking at, but he burbled as if in acknowledgement anyway. Perhaps when he was older he'd appear more delighted to be staying in a castle that could be out of a fairy-tale.

Sybil looked at Tom, who was staring at the back of the chauffeur's head with an unmistakable nervousness. She hadn't expected him to share her excitement about going back to Downton. It was a strange place for him to be: once he had been a servant, and even though he was part of the family, he was still an outcast. How could he ever forget the first awkward night of sitting at the dinner table with them, still dressed in his travel clothes, unable to contribute to a conversation without feeling like a traitor to his political cause?

She gripped his hand, although she knew it would do little to ease his worry. "It won't be for forever," she reminded him. "In a few weeks we'll be back in Dublin, in our own home."

"How much humiliation will I suffer until then?" Tom glanced out the window to see the outline of the Abbey come into view.

"You mustn't assume that. I'll make sure no makes a fool out of you," Sybil promised. "It'll be easier than last time, they should be used to the idea by now."

"And besides," she went on, bouncing Malachy on her lap, "all they'll want to focus on is our dear little boy. The first grandchild for Mama and Papa. We'll probably have a hard time taking him back to Dublin when the time comes."

"Will they insist on keeping him in the nursery here, bringing him up as a 'respectable' gentleman?" Tom asked dryly.

Sybil scoffed. "Of course not! Stop thinking like that, you know I won't let them decide how anyone in our family will live their life. I decided that when I married you, or have you forgotten."

"I know. I'm sorry, Sybil," Tom said regretfully. "I just can't get it out of my head. They see me as the odd one out."

"They see me the same way, you know," Sybil said.

"Yes, but they're your family, they love you," Tom remarked.

In response to that, Sybil leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "And _I_ love you. Is that not enough for you?"

"It's more than enough for me," Tom said. But his discomfiture was not going to easily be alleviated, no matter what Sybil did. It was up to her family to be as gracious to Tom as they would be to any other guest.

The car drove down the last stretch of the driveway, and Sybil and Tom could see the family and the servants lined up in the usual, organized fashion. Mama and Papa, Mary and Edith, and then Henry – a picture-perfect scene, or it would have been had not the sentences of Mary's most recent letter came back to Sybil as soon as she saw her older sister's face.

"Remember, we have to try and understand what's going on between Mary and Henry," Sybil said in hushed tones, as if the chauffeur would take interest in what they were talking about. "It's the only way we can help her."

Tom nodded. "Understood."

"And act surprised about Mary's pregnancy," Sybil added. "They'll tell us sometime today, at luncheon I should think."

Again, Tom nodded, and the car braked at the front doors. Tom glanced anxiously out the window, and Sybil knew he was looking at her father.

"I hope things will go better for us than the last time," he murmured.

Sybil kissed him again, quickly before the chauffeur opened the back door of the car. "We'll be fine."

She was the first to climb out of the car, holding Malachy in her arms. He looked around in confusion, blinking wearily, his tiny hands fastened to Sybil's shoulder.

"It's alright, little one," Sybil crooned. "These are your grandparents, and your aunts."

There were the expected greetings, kisses on the cheek and shaking of the hands, and of course fawning over Malachy. Reluctantly, Sybil had to hand him over to the nanny that had been hired to look after him while they were at Downton. She would have much rather preferred to have him in her arms for the entire holiday, but things here were done with a certain propriety that, even now in the twentieth century, was not superceded. Of course, nothing would stop her from sneaking into the nursery in the middle of the night just to cradle him in her arms.

She looked towards Mary, who naturally was smiling and acting pleased to see her. But something that the smile could not disguise was made all the more apparent to Sybil now that she was standing face-to-face with her sister again. The pained words of the letters echoed in her head, reminding her of Mary's unspoken plight.

The ghost in Mary's eyes was something that Sybil saw in many former soldiers who came by the hospital in Dublin, as well as those she remembered convalescing at Downton during the war. Those soldiers could smile and laugh and talk with cheery dispositions, but nothing they did could hide what was really happening in their heads – the nightmares that woke them up in the night, the uncontrollable urge to begin screaming. It was utter helplessness, the feeling of being trapped as if still standing in muddy trenches, bullets still screeching over their heads. Mary may not have been in a war, or even had close to the same experience, but the agony of being trapped was the same, and Sybil could see it in her eyes.

Mama announced that they would be having luncheon, and as the family reentred the house, Sybil edged close to Mary. "We'll talk when you feel like it," she said quietly.

"That won't be for a while," Mary muttered.

She took a quick look behind her, and Sybil followed her gaze. Henry was walking behind them. _He can't have heard us, could he_? Sybil wondered. _Even if he did, I doubt he'd suspect what we were talking about exactly._

If Mary had been compelled to look over her shoulder at Henry, to be sure that he wasn't curious to what she and Sybil had said to each other, then Sybil realized how she was regarding Henry now: she was afraid of him.

Sybil spent the rest of the day in anticipation for when she could talk to Mary in private. At luncheon the announcment of Mary's pregnancy was made, as she expected, and it was torture to put on a delightfully surprised expression when she knew that Mary was the opposite of delighted about her condition. Afterwards she and Tom went to their room to unpack, and then she had to tell the nanny about how she wanted Malachy to be taken care of (though she wasn't sure if the nanny would follow through). When she went downstairs to find Mary, she learned that she and Henry were out taking a walk. She didn't see Mary again until tea, and of course that was taken altogether.

In the end, the time to speak with Mary alone did not come until after dinner. They were sitting in the drawing room with coffee, and one by one the rest of the family excused themselves to go off to bed. Mary, did not follow Henry when he headed upstairs, and thankfully he did not force her to. That made her and Sybil the last two in the drawing room. It was quite late and Sybil was rather exhausted (having been up since the early morning), but now was the opportunity to talk, and she would not be in her right mind if she were to pass it up.

But how to begin without sounding like a lawyer interrogating a witness to a crime?

It was Mary who spoke first. "I assumed you got my last letter."

"The one you sent a few weeks ago," Sybil replied, "about the pregnancy. Yes, I did get that one."

Mary nodded. Sybil could tell she wasn't sure what exactly she wanted to say It seemed that she had so many things on her mind, each one about to burst forth from her mouth, but only silence could make it past her lips.

"Then you'll know … that I don't want it at all," she said finally. "I don't want to carry it, or care for it. I just don't want it to exist all."

She was staring down at the remnants of her coffee cup, her voice sounding much like it was paining her to speak. "Am I wrong to think this? Am I selfish or cruel to want this … thing that's growing inside me gone?"

"The only thing that's cruel about this is you being forced to go through this," Sybil said. "There's no point in blaming yourself for this."

Mary shook her head. "I still feel so wrong."

She sipped the last of her coffee, which by now had grown cold. Sybil didn't say anything; she didn't want to force Mary to keep talking, even though she had a few questions that needed answering.

"I don't know how to say anything to him," Mary went on. "He's so excited about the baby. He's been wanting one for a while. And I have to act like I'm excited too."

"It must be so hard for you," Sybil sympathised.

"Hard?" Mary repeated gruffly. "It's more than just 'hard,' it's a bloody hell!"

She sucked in a ragged breath to calm herself, placing the empty coffee cup and saucer on the table next to the couch. Sybil noticed her hands shaking visibly, but she clasped them together to conceal it.

"I'm so sorry," Sybil said after a pause. "I want to help you Mary, in any way I possibly can."

Mary looked up from wringing her hands, her eyes brimming with a silent plea for help that had been going unnoticed for too long. In a whisper, as if she was afraid of someone listening in on them, she asked, "Will you help me get rid of it?"

Sybil's eyes widened. "What?"

"Can't you help me do it, Sybil? You're a nurse, surely you know how to do it?"

Sybil sighed, knowing Mary would surely lose even more hope with what she had to tell her. "Mary, I know what you're asking of me, and I really do want to help you. But what you're asking me to do is illegal."

"You can make it look like I lost it, can't you?" implored Mary. "Henry doesn't have to know that it was forced out—"

"Mary, please listen to me," Sybil interjected. "I understand that you don't want to carry Henry's child at all, and the last thing I want is for you to go through this pregnancy when you don't want it. But to induce a miscarriage, or deliberately terminate your pregnancy – it would be a real danger to your health."

She could practically see Mary's hope crumbling inside her. "Why not?"

Sybil took a deep breath, despising herself for what she had to tell Mary. "First off, I was never taught how to do that sort of thing while I was being trained as a midwife. They think it would be encouragement to break the law if they did. And even if I did, I would need the proper tools, a properly sterlized environment, probably someone medically trained to aid me, just so we could avoid the risk of injury or infection. I know that you don't want the baby, but your health has to come first. Not only so that Henry won't suspect that you tried to get rid of it, but also so nothing will happen to you."

"You mean you don't know how I could get rid of it?" Mary asked incredulously.

Sybil reluctantly conceded, "I know the procedure, but I certainly won't risk doing it on you when I've never done it myself before. It's too dangerous for you. So much can go wrong. I should know, I've seen women who tried to do it themselves. They don't often make it, or they're badly scarred as a result." She added, "As for inducing a miscarriage, that's also rather dangerous, and there's no guarantee that it would work."

Mary's face fell lower and lower. "So there's no way to get rid of it?"

Reaching over to hold Mary's hand, a feeble attempt to reassure her that she was still on her side, Sybil said, "I understand how badly you want Henry's baby out of you, but you absolutely cannot sacrifice your health or even your life just to be rid of it. Unless you were to have a spontaneous miscarriage—"

Mary stood up suddenly and stomped towards the door. "If you're not going to help me, I'm going to bed."

"Wait, Mary!" Sybil cried. "I _do_ want to help you, but I won't help you hurt yourself."

Spinning back to face Sybil, Mary exclaimed, "So what am I to do about it? Go along with it and have it? Let it be a perpetual reminder of what Henry's done to me? He's been wanting a child for so long, and now he's going to get what he wants?"

Sybil stood up and went over to Mary, ready to prevent her from storming off. "Mary, what I think we should do is—"

"Do you want to know what he made me do just so I could have his child?" Mary blurted out.

Sybil froze, trying to comprehend what Mary was getting at. She pushed aside what she was going to try to convince Mary to do – attempt to get a divorce. Instead, she decided she needed to listen to what Mary had to tell her.

"You should sit down," she said coaxingly. She took ahold of Mary's arm gently and drew her down to the nearby armchair. Mary placidly complied, but she seemed shaken at her own outburst.

"I'm sorry, I don't know why …" Her voice trembled, as did her hands.

Sybil stooped, still holding Mary's arm. "What do you mean by what he made you do? Did he … has he forced himself on you?"

Mary shook her head, but it was with a bit of hesitancy. "No, that's not what I meant. But for the first few months after I married Henry, he started to notice that I wasn't getting pregnant. We were doing it rather often, without protection of any kind, but still …"

"Was this when you started to realize you weren't in love anymore?" Sybil asked.

Mary shrugged. "Around that time. That's when things started to feel different with him. It was after our first Christmas together, and he had been so sure that I'd be pregnant by then. When it turned out that I wasn't showing any signs, he took me to a doctor to see what was wrong with me."

Sybil could barely contain her disgusted laugh. "So he assumed that it was _you_ who had the problem."

"The thing was I _did_ have a problem," Mary clarified. "I won't go into detail about what it was, because it was a bit confusing for me to understand. But in the end I needed a small operation to fix the problem. I had it done in the spring."

"And having that operation is what allowed you to get pregnant?"

"It would eventually. The doctor said we shouldn't … be intimate … for six months afterwards, and he estimated it still be a while before I became pregnant. But it worked, obviously." Mary laughed shakily, adding offhandely, "Frankly, I'm surprised it took me this long to get pregnant. You found out you were going to have Malachy a few months after you married Tom."

Sybil rubbed Mary's quivering hand to comfort her. "Did you want the operation?"

Mary nodded. "I wanted it, eventually. But Henry made me have it as soon as I could."

"You mean he forced you to go through with it?" Sybil gasped.

Mary nodded again. "I kept saying I'd rather wait, do it in the autumn when there wasn't so much going on, but he kept insisting that there really wasn't any reason to wait. He wanted there to be a baby in the family as soon as we could have one – and how could I possibly say no? He believed I wanted one as much as he did. But I was having doubts even then."

"If he forced you to have an operation against your will, I'd be having more than doubts," Sybil muttered bitterly. She hated it when someone thought they had control over another person's body. It was abhorrently invasive, and to think that Henry had gone against Mary's wishes just to fufill his own desire to have a child made her insides churn.

Mary's other hand ran tentatively across her own stomach. She wasn't far along enough for the pregnancy to be noticeable, but Sybil reckoned she could still feel it, the confusion and dread bottling up inside of her as even now her body began to adapt to her condition. Since she more or less had an operation against her will, she was likely uncomfortable in her own skin, likely feeling that she didn't even have control over what was done to it.

"Mary, what I was going to suggest earlier," Sybil started to tell her, "is that we could try to help you obtain a divorce."

With an impertinent sneer, Mary tugged her hand away from Sybil and shot up from the armchair. She strode towards the door to the hallway. "What good will that do? I'll still probably end up having his child."

"But you'll be free of Henry," Sybil tried to persuade her, "you could give the child up, or saddle Henry with it if he wants it that badly."

"And on what grounds could I possibly get a divorce?" Mary snapped, whirling around. "He's managed to do nothing to warrant one. We still look like the perfect couple to everybody else, and to my knowledge he hasn't been sleeping with anyone besides me."

"He violated your body!" Sybil exclaimed.

"No one would see it like that!" Mary groaned. "I signed the consent form with my own hand, and I wasn't put under the anaesthetic kicking and screaming."

Sybil's heart sank at hearing Mary reject any offer for help. "There's got to be a way, I know it. I could talk to Papa, or Tom and I could—"

A coarse laugh burst out of Mary. "What could you and Tom hope to achieve? The two of you aren't exactly in a position to be of any help to anybody!"

Sybil was nearly struck speechless. She froze, her own body trembling. "Mary, please …"

"Oh, just forget it, Sybil!" Mary cried. "Don't try to help me, not if you're going to leave me like _this_!"

She stormed out of the drawing room, the heels of her shoes clapping hard against the carpet. Sybil could hear her stomp up the stairs in a hurry, and though she wanted to race after her, she didn't.

Her own sister, so convinced that she'd never be free of Henry that she was ready to reject any offer of aid. Surely if Papa knew what she was going through he'd do everything he could to help her (besides literally snapping Henry's neck). Sybil knew that Mary was not completely without hope – there had to be some small way, and they'd find it if they searched hard enough – but how could Mary be saved if she herself didn't believe she could be?

Mary's angry words about Sybil and Tom stung her in her heart, even though she was aware that there was only so much she and Tom could possibly do. They were hardly powerful people even in Dublin. Even so, whatever either of them could do to help Mary, they would have done anything and everything. It would be uncharacteristic of either of them to stand by and allow such injustice to continue.

 _I can't let her go on like this,_ Sybil decided. Mary's lashing out, her inability to say what was on her mind, her reluctance to accept help, it all stemmed from her unhappiness. She had fallen into a hole that she couldn't climb out of by herself, and if no one helped her out, she'd sink deeper and deeper into the ground. Sybil couldn't let that happen – wouldn't let that happen – under any circumstances.

Perhaps in the morning Mary might be more willing to listen to her, but tonight there was nothing more that Sybil could do. She turned out the light and closed the drawing room door behind her.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: I know it's a shorter chapter, but there's a surprise coming up! I won't spoil it ..._

* * *

Chapter Seven

Mary didn't say anything more on the matter of Henry or her pregnancy to Sybil for the next few days. When they were alone in the library or in a quiet corner of the drawing room, Sybil would attempt to bring it up, but Mary would steer the conversation away from that better than Henry could steer a speeding race car around a bend. She'd forge a smile, say she was perfectly alright if Sybil prompted her to tell her if anything was troubling her. It was as if Sybil had imagined the whole ordeal, which she knew was impossible; the letters over many months, all pleading and crying for help, Mary's heartbroken outburst, it was all too disturbing for somebody to fabricate in their head.

Her misery was too evident for Sybil to be exaggerating. And too serious for Mary to be dismissing.

"I don't know what to do," Sybil confessed to Tom one night in bed. "I'm scared for her."

"Shouldn't you tell your father? Or maybe your mother could talk to her?" Tom suggested. His hands ran across her shoulders, feeling her bare skin in the darkness.

"She said she doesn't want anybody else to know," Sybil responded. "I know Papa would do anything to help Mary, but I don't want to betray her trust. She turned to me before Mama or Papa, and I don't want to do something that would cause her to turn away."

As a nurse, she had made contact with several patients – mostly young women with unstable jobs – who asked that their ailment be kept secret from their husbands or family. For whatever reason, and Sybil didn't usually ask for the reason. The trust a patient had with a nurse or a doctor was important, and to break that would spell trouble for everyone. Mary's case was no different, yet Sybil feared that if no one else intervened, someone who actually had the capacity to challenge Henry and his marriage to Mary, then things would worsen rapidly.

"Have you talked with Henry much?" Sybil asked Tom.

Even with the light off she could see Tom grimace slightly. "I have, a little bit."

"What's he like?"

"Well, with me at least, his company isn't bad," Tom conceded. "At tea today we actually had a decent conversation. I asked him about his car racing, what models he favours and such. He asked me about my experience as the chauffeur for this house, as well as some other things." He chuckled, though he sounded quite abashed. "And I actually enjoyed it. I feel guilty because he's hurting Mary and it doesn't seem right that I should have, but I did."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "He's quite the charmer, isn't he?

Tom shrugged. "He's handsome, obviously. Sociable too. But I don't know if I would say he's friendly, or … what's another word?"

"Amicable?" Sybil offered. "Congenial? Appealing?"

Tom snorted. "Those are some very posh words. But even so, what I was getting at was that he may _seem_ those things, but if he's upsetting Mary, I don't suppose it's right to call him such."

"I doubt he realizes what he's doing," Sybil said. "Mary doesn't let on that she's upset, so he doesn't see what consequences his actions actually have."

"Hmm." Tom shifted in bed. "If he did see what he was doing to her, the effect he has on her, what do you think he'd do?"

Sybil shook her head, hair rubbing against the pillow. "I don't know. I don't know him well enough. As a matter of fact, you probably have a better idea of what he's like than I do," she teased.

"Not well enough to know his reaction upon learning Mary doesn't want to go through with her pregnancy," Tom shrugged.

"He's the root of the problem," Sybil said. "If Mary's to get out of the depression she's in, he needs to go."

"But he won't go down without a fight," Tom said, "and a long and bloody one at that."

Sybil anticipated that, but she'd fight as hard as she had to as well, even if it literally resulted in a few bloody knuckles.

But as the days leading up to Christmas and New Years' came and went, it seemed that there was hardly a battle to be fought. Mary feigned happiness even when sitting next to Henry, smiling as brightly as she could. She talked about the unborn baby cheerfully to anyone who asked about it. Even though Sybil could see through her facade and detect the misery inside, no one else could, or they simply never made mention of it.

If Mary had turned to her for help, then why was she now pushing away Sybil's offers and pretending that she was perfectly fine? Had she lost all hope of escaping her current life already? It baffled Sybil, and it scared her even more. Was she simply going to keep acting as the adoring wife, Henry breaking her down little by little until she wasn't herself anymore?

Sybil was at her wit's end until she found a tiny ray of light a few days before New Years'.

Coming downstairs in the morning, she found her mother walking away from the telephone in the entry hall, a broad smile spread across her face.

"Good news," Mama said excitedly. "Matthew's coming here for New Years'."

Sybil nearly shouted with delight. "Is he really? Oh my goodness!"

Mama grinned at Sybil's elation. "Yes, he is. It took a bit of prodding, but I insisted. He's been away for far too long."

Sybil nodded, smiling. "He certainly has. I don't think I've seen him for two years. How long will he be staying?"

"Not for very long, I'm afraid. He'll be here for shooting, and the New Years' Eve party, but he said he'd probably return to London the day after."

"Well, I suppose that'll have to do," Sybil acquiesced. "As long as he's coming, that's good enough. Do you know where Mary is?"

"I think she's in the library," Mama answered. She strutted off towards her personal study.

Practically bounding to the library entryway, Sybil felt like this was the ray of light she had been hoping for, something that might give Mary a small bit of hope, a real reason to smile. Matthew was her friend, someone she trusted, someone who had once made her smile – and Sybil hadn't forgotten that Mary had considered taking his hand in marriage. Not because he was the heir, but because of something that Sybil saw clearly as love.

Sybil had been deeply disappointed when Matthew withdrew his proposal to Mary, then later got engaged with Lavinia Swire, but she hadn't questioned it at the time – she was young, and hadn't fallen in love with Tom by then. But recently she had begun to wonder what might have happened had Mary said 'yes' without hesitation, had they been married before the war or some time after. If that had happened, Mary wouldn't have married Henry and thus been in the horrid state she was in now. For all of the snide remarks Mary had shot at Matthew initially, Sybil was able to recognize the small sparks of light that flew from their eyes when they glanced at each other, the softer tones they used when no one else was watching them. And even more evident were the small quivers of a broken heart in Mary's face when she saw Matthew with another woman at his side. Sybil had witness love before she had experienced it herself, but it was love that never had a chance to flourish.

But, she wondered, if Mary was given a reminder of what love had felt like before, if she saw a familiar face, heard a voice that cared for her, perhaps she could be persuaded to fight for her happiness.

"Mary?" Sybil called out as she approached the library. "Are you in he—?"

She came into the library, catching sight of Mary on one of the red couches, a newspaper crumpled in one hand. Henry was next to her, or now he was. A second before, he had been in front of Mary, bending over her slightly, one hand on her thigh. But as soon as he realized Sybil was coming into the library he straigtened up in a flash, both hands tucked into his trouser pockets.

"Yes?" he asked Sybil casually.

Sybil's face hardened. "I was looking for Mary. I wanted to tell her something," she said stiffly.

"What is it?" Mary released the newspapers she was gripping, smoothing it over her lap. Henry sat down beside her, his eyes boring into Sybil as if challenging her to talk to his wife in front of him. But Sybil couldn't be frightened away by mere glares, at least not now that she finally had a piece of good news to share with Mary.

"I just heard that Matthew's coming for New Years.'" Sybil could barely contain her grin. "He'll be here for shooting, and then a couple of days afterward."

Mary was motionless as she took in the news. That small gleam in her eye that Sybil recognized after so long, however, appeared, and had Henry not been present Mary too would perhaps be grinning widely, excited babbling bursting from her mouth. But she only sat there, as if the news had little to do with her.

"Matthew Crawley, you mean?" Henry asked. "The heir?"

"That's right," Sybil confirmed.

She kept looking at Mary, expecting her to say something, anything. For a moment, Mary didn't speak, and when she did it was less enthusiastic than Sybil would have liked.

"Well, that'll be nice," he said nonchalantly. "It'll be good for everyone to see him again."

It was a casual comment, almost dismissive. She flipped open the newspaper again; for now, she didn't seem to want to dwell on the matter of Matthew's upcoming visit any longer. Sybil attributed it to Henry being in the room – it wouldn't be a good thing for Mary to act overly thrilled about another man while he was here. She _had_ to be, at the very least, pleased that Matthew was coming to visit Downton for a few days.

Mary, seeing Sybil still standing in front of her as if she had more to say, raised an eyebrow. "Is there something else?"

"No," Sybil admitted, "no, I just came in to tell you that Matthew was coming."

"Well, you've said it now," Mary said, crinkling her newspaper for good measure.

 _At least she's aware now_ , Sybil thought. She had to remind herself that she was only acting disinterested because Henry was here, and not because she really thought nothing of Matthew coming to Downton.

"Then, I'll leave the two of you alone," she said curtly. "Sorry to interrupt whatever you were doing before."

Her eyes narrowed in Henry's direction for a brief second before she turned on her heel and strode out of the library.

"That was … interesting," Henry remarked, once he knew Sybil was out of earshot.

"Interesting? How do you mean?" Mary's eyes were glued to the newspaper.

"I mean that initially no one was sure he was coming, and frankly it sounded like he wouldn't in the end," Henry explained.

"People change their minds all the time," Mary shrugged. "So what if he's coming for New Years'? It's not such a big deal."

"I think it _is_ a big deal, since he's hardly seen the family after his wife died. That's what you told me on the train."

"Well, he can't wallow in his own grief forever, can he? It's been over a year."

Henry leaned back into the couch, opening his own book. Mary believed that would be the end of their conversation, but a moment later he asked her, "What are you thinking about?"

"What do you mean?" she returned, hiding the annoyance in her voice.

"I can tell you aren't really reading that paper," Henry said. "Your eyes aren't moving."

He was as observant as an overseer, and very good at making guesses. She _had_ been thinking: her eyes were looking at the newspaper, but her thoughts were seeped in the news that Sybil had relayed. It had taken all of her effort not to smile even a little when Sybil mentioned his name. She didn't know why she should be feeling so overjoyed inside, why the fire within her suddenly ignited itself again.

It was like hearing that he was coming back to Downton from the front, while he was in France fighting in the trenches. She never knew when he was due to come back, but whenever she saw him it felt like an immense relief. She'd feel that all the days he was away, she was only waiting with bated breath to hear of him coming back again. Even though he was no longer in danger, though he now could hop on a train to Downton anytime he wanted, it was like hearing of a day that she feared would never arrive.

She hadn't realized before how much she wanted to see him again, and now that she knew for certain that she would, she could hardly wait any longer.

She had always been waiting for him.

* * *

Matthew's train was late leaving the station at London, so it was not certain when it would arrive at the Downton station. When he did finally arrive, there was no great welcome at the front doors, the family and servants lined up like a battalion. Secretly, Matthew was glad for this: he did not want to be treated as some esteemed guest, with so many pairs of eyes staring at him, maybe judging him. He felt much like a stranger anyhow, a family member who had distanced himself from even his mother, still living in Crawley house in the village.

The family, including Isobel Crawley, were seated in the library with tea when Matthew was shown in. He felt strangely shy, like how he imagined a society lady making her debut. Even though he knew everyone in the room, he hadn't seen many of them for a long while. Even his mother he hadn't seen for a few months, not since the last time she had dropped in unexpectedly at his London home.

Robert was the first to stand up and greet him, as warmly as usual. "My dear chap," he said jovially. "How marvelous that you've decided to join us."

Matthew laughed shakily as Robert pumped his hand. "I hope you had a nice Christmas," was all he could say in reply.

He scanned the library, recognizing all of the familiar faces. Cora sitting next to his Mother on one of the red couches, Edith in her own armchair next to where the tea set was laid out. Tom was also in his own chair., but Sybil was standing up, a year-old baby burbling in her arms. Matthew couldn't remember the little boy's name.

For a second Matthew couldn't recognize the tall man leaning against the fireplace mantel, but he deduced his identity quickly. That was Mary's husband, Henry, the race car driver. Of all the people in the room he was the one with whom Matthew was least familiar with. He knew little about the man, only that Mary had met him sometime in the summer of 1919, and they had gotten married not long after. Matthew had attended the wedding with Lavinia, and he remembered having mixed feelings about the day.

Then Matthew's eyes rested on Mary.

She was sitting on the red couch, her eyes looking down at her teacup. Matthew's heart seemed to stop with the realization that this was the first time since Lavinia's funeral that he had seen her. That had only been a little over a year ago.

Yet Mary looked drastically different. He couldn't put his finger on why exactly – she was still beautiful, still well-groomed, and she looked healthy enough. Her posture was stiff, her face expressionless, but Matthew couldn't shake this feeling of his, this feeling that some of the light inside of her had dimmed.

He had actually missed her – quite a lot, as a matter of fact. They had not exchanged a word for more than a year, since they hadn't spoken to each other at Lavinia's funeral, and he had never plucked up his courage to call on her or telephone her. His grief was his excuse for not making contact: he feared that if he saw her, if they talked, the past would remerge to continue haunting him. It was understandable that he hadn't gone to see her after Lavinia's death, but it had been more than a year, and the truth of the matter was that he _did_ miss Mary, enough to occasionally make him stand in front of his telephone and wonder if he should find out her number.

"Thank goodness your train came in time for you to have tea," Cora said to him, forcing Matthew to wrench his eyes away from Mary.

He endured the warm greetings while putting on the most cheerful face he could muster. He was quite glad actually to see Tom and Sybil again, but seeing their young son Malachy sent a twinge of pain straight to his heart. He should be here with Lavinia, with a young child of their own. Since her death he wondered why having children was the source of great joy for some people and a cause of pain and heartbreak for others. Perhaps if Lavinia had left him a living child before dying he could bear sleeping in an empty bed, but being without someone to care for had left him truly alone.

"Matthew, is it?" Henry Talbot held out his hand. "Pleasure to meet you again."

"Pleasure," Matthew muttered, grudgingly forgiving Henry for nearly forgetting his name.

He'd only met Mary's husband a handful of times, and he didn't know what to think of him. Henry smiled often, was charming and admittedly rather handsome, but he wasn't the type of man Matthew imagined Mary would end up with. He'd always believed that Mary would marry a marquess or another earl, not a common man who had an outlandish career. Henry hadn't even been particularly rich when he married; his success from the races had come just a short while afterwards.

Of course it wasn't up to him to question who Mary married – as long as she was happy, he was content.

Henry turned around to Mary, who was still sitting on the couch with her eyes downcast. "Mary darling, have you said 'hello' to Matthew yet?"

Matthew was reminded of a parent coaxing a child to greet a stranger. He thought it an odd way for a husband to speak to a wife, but he decided not to question it.

Mary set her teacup aside and lifted herself from the couch. She walked to where Matthew and Henry were standing. Almost every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on her.

She looked up at Matthew finally, smiling. "Hello Matthew."

Her eyes seemed different, Matthew realized. There wasn't any life behind them. They were the glassy, open eyes of someone recently dead, like the fresh corpses he had seen in the trenches before they were dragged away. But Mary was alive and well, she had not suffered tragedy, she was married … she shouldn't have that lifeless look in her eyes.

"Hello Mary," Matthew managed to say. "I'm very glad to see you again."

Mary's smile was warm, but her eyes remained like two hard stones. Henry's arm snaked around her shoulders, and Matthew detected her smile waning a little.

"I heard about your good news," he added. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," Mary nodded.

Henry grinned boyishly. "It's terribly exciting for us. We've been waiting for this to happen ever since we were married, and that was over two years ago. But we do feel so lucky that it's finally happening."

"Henry," Mary said in a warning tone.

Henry seemed to recognized his blunder, and he looked apologetically to Matthew. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I had forgotten that you … your poor wife …"

"No please, you're … you're not upsetting me at all," Matthew interjected. To reassure them he added, "I'm very happy for both of you, and I hope that everything goes well for you. Especially you, Mary. I mean it."

Mary nodded again.

"So, will you join the rest of us for shooting?" Henry asked.

"I said I would," Matthew replied, "though I probably end up making a bloody fool of myself."

Henry snickered. "You know, that's how Mary and I first met – a grouse shooting in August. Two complete strangers brought unexpectedly together. Truly, it was amazing how well we got on so quickly."

"I can imagine," Matthew said dryly.

He stepped aside in case Henry dwelled on the matter of the upcoming shooting and his first encounter with Mary. He helped himself to a cup of tea and a biscuit, then sat himself down next to his mother and chatted with the others.

He was disappointed that he wasn't able to have a proper conversation with Mary, what with Henry looming over them the entire time. He had imagined a thousand times over what their reunion would look like, but none of what he visualized had come to pass. It was because he had never factored in Henry, he had only imagined him and Mary, the only two people in his fantasies.

Matthew remembered the first meeting he and Mary had had since he went off to war. That had been satisfying, uplifting – he had been afraid there were bad feelings lingering, but it was just a relief to see her, to hear her speak as one would to a dear friend.

Now things were different, and it hurt him inside. They were strangers again. He wondered if Mary had ever thought of him from time to time, thought about the few times they smiled and laughed and everything felt right with their worlds. What had changed since the last time they had spoken? Why now did Mary seem so dead inside? She was married and pregnant, she should be brimming with happiness.

Why was the Mary he longed to see again gone?

* * *

 _A/N: Surprise! Matthew's back! But things between him and Mary won't be resolved quickly. There's still plenty of angst to dish out for the both of them:_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Sorry it's been so long since the last update! I'm home for the summer now, so hopefully new chapters will be a bit more regular now!_

* * *

Chapter 8

The shooting was scheduled for New Years' Eve. It was a grey and misty day, but the sun shone brightly through the clouds, so the weather was suitable for shooting. The shooting party gathered outside the house as they quarrelled civilly about which of the ladies would stand by which of the men. There were quite a few people, not just the ones staying at Downton, but the men far outnumbered the women.

"We'll walk to the first drive, then use the wagonette after that," Robert explained as he handed out cigarettes to the men.

Tom looked around, shifting the rifle hooked over his arm. He didn't know why he was participating in this, besides to avoid looking like an outsider. "Please promise me you won't tell my family how awful I am at this," Tom muttered to Sybil.

"I think it's the fact that you're engaging in an English sport that'll distress them more," Sybil replied. "Not that any of these people would be interested in a hurling match."

Tom glanced about at the shooting party standing around on the driveway. "It seems like some of these men won't have anyone to watch them during the shoot."

"I suppose the ladies will have to distribute their charms fairly," one of the other men joked.

Henry took one of the cigarettes offered by Robert. "Mary will stand by me for the shoot, in case that wasn't obvious."

Mary had been expecting him to say that, but she felt that if she had to be bound to him outdoors as wells as inside she might actually scream. Of course it was all part of Henry's scheme to keep her in his sights for as long as he could during this holiday, his ridiculous endeavor to spend more 'quality time' with her. She felt rather like a caged bird being dragged around for show.

Sybil drew in a breath as she tugged her gloves on. "Does Matthew have anyone to stand with him for the shoot?"

"I don't believe so," Robert answered, "and he refused a loader as well."

"Suppose one of us stood with him, at least for just the first drive?" Sybil suggested. "Mary? How about you?"

Mary's head snapped towards Sybil. "Me? Why not you or Edith?"

"Because I have to stand with Tom to make sure he loads his gun properly," Sybil said, much to Tom's embarassment. He had refused a loader as well. "And Edith wants to stand by Lord Bellingham's son, God knows why."

Henry sighed petulantly. "I don't think—"

"I think Matthew would be glad to have a bit of company," Tom said. "I'll go and tell him now."

Before Henry could utter another word of protest, Tom strutted off to where Matthew was checking his rifle. He wasn't much pleased with this sudden rearrangment. And Mary, frankly, was simply flustered.

"What in God's name are you doing?" she hissed at Sybil.

"It'll only be for the first drive," Sybil said. Seeing Henry's obvious irritation, she told him, "You can survive without your wife for a little while."

"And what if Matthew refuses Mary's company?" Henry countered.

"Well then you can have Mary for the entire shoot," Sybil said. She looked behind her to see Tom talking to Matthew, Matthew nodding his head in reply to whatever Tom was saying. She smiled at this small victory. "But I think you'll have to relinquish her for the first drive."

Henry scowled. Mary looked vaguely panicked. _Oh God,_ she thought _, I'll be standing next to him – alone!_

Tom came back to them just before the horn sounded for them to set off for the first drive. He nodded to Sybil, confirming Matthew's acceptance of Mary's company. "He says it's alright for Mary to stand with him."

"It's settled then," Sybil declared.

"But I—" Mary objected. The blare of the horn cut her off. Immediately the dogs started to bay and everyone started to follow Robert away from the house towards the first drive. Sybil hooked her hand around Tom's arm and prompted him to start walking, denying Mary her chance to argue.

Mary glanced up at Henry, but he was looking behind him, where Matthew was standing, still inspecting his rifle. She touched his arm gently, saying, "I can refuse him, you know. I can say Tom and Sybil bullied me into it. He won't—"

"No, go ahead. Let the poor man have his company. I don't mind," Henry returned quickly, though his obvious bitterness conveyed the opposite.

Mary was secretly pleased that he was letting her walk with someone else to the first drive. As much as she was dreading being alone with Matthew, even for just a short while, she would have detested being beside Henry for the entire day even more, her only purpose being to applaud when he hit his target or encourage him when he missed. Almost every moment of this holiday she had endured being at his side, unable to formulate a substantial excuse for leaving it. She had being quietly hoping that there'd be a chance she could stand by another man, even an unfamiliar one, for it would be a relief not to be in Henry's proximity for just a short while.

And despite her making a scene about standing by Matthew for the first drive, she was not about to leave him alone now that Henry was letting her go. She _wanted_ to stand by him, wanted a private moment alone with him, just to feel a resemblance of the past when they both still lived at Downton, when they were as familiar as friends, when she did not have to wonder when she'd next see him.

But how was she supposed to act with him now? The had barely exchanged a word with each other since tea the other day. She had felt no better than a stranger or a mere acquantaince to him. Had time weakened their friendship, so long now that too late for it to be repaired? Mary was afraid of that – she did not want to believe that she and Matthew could not be as companionable as they were before, but if that was reality …

She had really missed him. The moment on the train when Henry had mentioned him, Mary fully realized it. She had missed him so much. She still did.

She heard footsteps crunching on the gravel behind her just as Henry started to follow the rest of the shooters. She knew who it was coming up behind her, but she didn't turn her head to look at him.

"Hello, Mr Crawley," Henry muttered. "I hear you're to steal my wife for the first drive."

Mary could still imagine the expression Matthew wore whenever someone was being impertinent towards him. "I don't believe 'steal' is the appropriate term here."

"No, it's not," Mary agreed, raising her eyes in Henry's direction. "I'm going with Matthew of my own accord. It's not stealing if I'm going willingly."

Henry's mouth was set in a thin line, and his face looked sour as he told Matthew, "You'd better keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't get too bored."

Matthew nodded curtly. "She's in good hands, trust me."

"Well in any case, we ought to follow the others to the first drive," Henry said, gesturing with the rifle hooked around his arm.

Mary and Matthew walked beside each other as the party set off to the first drive. They didn't speak, partly because Henry was walking close behind them, and partly because neither of them knew how to begin talking to each other again. The both of them shared the exact same feeling, the feeling that they were back to being absolute strangers. It was as if they were two different people, and the real Mary and Matthew were off somewhere else.

Mary didn't look directly at Matthew's face, but every few seconds she'd glance over at his tweed-clad body, and her gaze would rest on his hands. His hands were the same as she remembered: roughened up by the grittiness of the trenches, strong, but gentle. For a moment she recalled how he held her own hands when they danced, his fingers delicately grasping around the back of her hands. Right now they were somewhat red at the tips due to being exposed to the chilly air, but normally they were imbued with a warmth that Mary was sure the cold could not permeate. Did they still feel warm and gentle now? Mary doubted she'd get the chance to find out.

She was glad to stand by him, but she wasn't keen on speaking with him. She was afraid of what she might accidently reveal to Matthew when she was alone with him. He believed just like everybody else that she was content with Henry, that she was excited about her pregnancy. What might spontaeneously slip out of her mouth, and what would he think of it?

It didn't matter if she said anything at all or not. She was resigned to the fact that she was beyond help, beyond any chance to escape her current life, and what could Matthew offer to do or say that would give her some relief?

 _I have to keep my distance_ , she told herself. It would easier, for both her and for Matthew.

But as she stood by him on the first drive, watching him load his own rifle, the distant shots of the other guns blasting through the air, she wondered if she could manage to keep her distance. It was like finally being able to breath fresh, cool air after standing in a hot kitchen for hours, standing next to Matthew. It was just the two of them, and she felt lighter simply being far apart from Henry. She couldn't even see where he was. She didn't feel the need to wear her mask, or put on airs.

"Why don't you have a loader?" she asked, splitting the silence between them. "Barnard would have found you one."

Matthew turned his head when he heard her speak, as if he was surprised she had. It was the tone of her voice that surprised him as well – it was brighter, not as dull or forced as it had been before.

"I'm not very good at it," he confessed. "This or double guns, and I don't want a witness."

"I'm a witness," Mary reminded him.

"Then please don't spread word of my incompetence," Matthew said.

Mary looked towards the sky as more shots boomed from afar. Matthew raised his own rifle to the air, his eyes trained on a bird frantically flapping its wings. He pulled the trigger and Mary cringed as the short blasts burst out of the muzzle.

"I never know which is worse: the sorrow when you hit the bird or the shame when you miss it," she pondered out loud.

"Either way, it's not a very nice feeling," Matthew said above the squawking of pheasant. He hadn't hit his mark that time. "Someone I knew in France said something like that one time."

"About soldiers, you mean?" Mary asked. She had a sudden, rather disturbing thought. "This doesn't remind you of the war, does it? The shooting, and the killing of things?"

Matthew tried to look indifferent, though there was no denying he had made the connection between the war and the shooting before. "It's not so bad. It's been a while."

"I know there were quite a few men who turned down Papa's offer to join us, and I suspect it was because of the war," Mary said.

"I suppose I won't take much pleasure in it if I do hit one in the end," Matthew returned. "If I deliberately miss the entire time you won't say a word, will you?"

Mary shrugged slightly. "I already promised that I would not spread word of your incompetence."

How strangely easy it was to talk with him again, as if nothing had changed between them. Was it simply because they were alone? Perhaps that was it, at least part of the reason. But for whatever reason, she didn't want to stop – it felt so nice talking with him, even on the trivial matter of him shooting and her watching. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

God, how she had missed the sound of his voice. What would it be like for that soft voice to be the first thing she heard in the morning and the last thing in the evening? A long time ago she had heard it every day, and when he was at war she'd hear it in her head as she read his letters from the front. She never thought she'd miss it so, but now that she was hearing it again … now that she was with him again …

"How are you?" Matthew asked, much as if they had only just met.

"What do you mean?" Mary felt like they had regressed back to strangers again, the casual conversation they had just had completely forgotten. Had she only imagined it happening at all?

"I mean," Matthew said, pausing as he opened his rifle to reload, "how have things been for you since you moved to London with Henry?"

"Things are … fine," Mary answered. She didn't want to go into detail about her current life. "You know the important stuff: I'm married, I'm pregnant, I live in London. I haven't found some new hobby that I've devoted a great deal of my time to. I go to Henry's races. I do what women do."

She didn't think she should ask how Matthew's life was going in return. She didn't think that he had much to share about how life after Lavinia's death was treating him. And she did not want to be the one responsible for bringing up painful memories when he was supposed to be enjoying himself.

Matthew paused. "And are you happy with your life now?"

That question shouldn't have taken her by surprise, but she wasn't sure if she should answer it truthfully. She was used to lying, but standing here and talking with Matthew, it felt like lying to him would be a horrid crime. She never lied to him, at least not that she could recall, but would it be worth it?

"Of course I am," she said brightly. "Truly. I couldn't be happier."

Matthew nodded shortly, though Mary could sense that he wasn't quite convinced. "You're happy that you're married to Henry, and that you're pregnant?" he asked, as though prompting her for clarification.

"I said so, didn't I?" Mary said tiredly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to press you," Matthew apologized. "It only sounded like – never mind." He turned his face back to the sky, raising his rifle and firing at a bird.

"Sounded like what?" asked Mary.

Matthew sighed as he lowered his rifle again. "I just thought … you made things sound as if they were very dull."

"Of course they're dull, but I didn't expect to have a life of wild adventures when I married Henry," Mary replied. "He's a car racer, not a cowboy."

She noticed the small smile on Matthew's face. "Imagine what life would be like if he were."

Mary didn't believe that her opinion of him would change if he were something other than a race car driver. He might see himself as a celebrity less if he were a solicitor like Matthew, or some other job where he sat at a desk all day, but he might also still see himself as superior to even his wife. Even if Henry had another extraordinary job, Mary figured she wouldn't get much excitement out of it herself.

"Well, I suppose as long as you're content …" Matthew trailed off. Mary imagined the end of his sentence to be something along the lines of, "Everything is alright."

She desperately wanted to burst into tears. She wanted to fling herself into his arms and bury her face into his jacket. She wanted to graps for his hands and never let go. She wanted to cry out that she wasn't happy, not even content, not at all. She wanted to confess that she hated Henry, that she was afraid of him, that she could not be herself when he was around. Even though every fibre of her being was telling her to run into Matthew's arms, she stayed rooted to her spot on the grass.

He'd listen to her, she knew. He would believe every horrible word she spewed out against her own husband. Matthew cared more about her feelings than Henry; he at least made it clear that he did.

She could reveal all that she wanted to about her unhappy marriage, but she could never directly admit to him that she had missed him more than anybody else.

She jolted slightly as another shot burst from Matthew's rifle. "I think I might have got that last one," Matthew said offhandedly.

The horn blew just then, and Mary's heart sank when she realized she'd be beside Henry again in a matter of minutes. She had been glad for the chance to talk with Matthew, but it wasn't enough. It was over too soon, and another time like this one wasn't likely to come again, not for a long while.

Matthew hooked his rifle over his arm. "You must promise faithfully to lie when they ask you how I did," he told Mary.

"Of course I will." It would be no big matter to lie for him; she did it all the time.

She looked over towards where the rest of the shooters were walking. The wagonette was waiting for them on the far side of the green. Only a short distance away, she recognized Henry standing in his hunting tweeds, his arms crossed with the barrel of his rifle pointing to the sky.

Mary felt her insides freeze. Had he been watching them?

She and Matthew were walking in his direction, and she felt her own feet dragging through the dewy grass, as if something was trying to prevent her from moving closer to Henry. She was back to that feeling again: she had done something he would disapprove of, or he'd rebuke her for enjoying the short time she spent apart from him. The length of the first drive had not been nearly long enough – she'd give anything to spend another minute alone with Matthew.

"Thank you for returning my wife in one piece, Mr Crawley," Henry said as Matthew and Mary came near. He fell into step beside them as they continued on towards the wagonette.

Henry may have been making a slight jest, but Mary could easily sense that Matthew was just as irritated with that remark as she was. "I was not shooting in Mary's direction, Mr Talbot," Matthew replied sourly.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Henry asked Mary.

Mary nodded, though she was aware she might be falling into a trap. "Matthew did quite well." She glanced at him long enough to catch his grateful smirk.

However, she missed Henry narrowing his eyes in Matthew's direction.

She climbed into the wagonette beside Sybil, Henry sliding in beside her. Matthew sat down next to Tom, who looked like he was about to lose his grip on the gun.

"None of you warned me this thing would be so heavy," he grumbled.

"He wasn't holding it properly," Sybil whispered to Mary. "I tried to show him …"

The wagonette bumped as it went over a rough patch on the path. The end of the rifle grazed the edge of the bench and Tom fumbled before it fell completely out of his grasp. A few people in the wagonette jolted at the grating noise.

"Steady on there, Tom," Henry said smugly. "You'll need to keep a good grip on that thing if you're to have it for the rest of the day."

Tom nodded sheepishly, looking rather like he wanted to jump out of the wagonette without a second thought.

Luncheon didn't come soon enough for Mary. For the remainder of the morning she stood beside Henry, as she promised she would, praising and encouraging him at the right times. He always called his shots that hit a target flukes, but Mary knew he liked to hear his prowess commended. Another masculine pursuit he excelled at, another one where Mary was forced to stand and watch, cheering him on even though she held no enthusiasm.

When the shooting party finally travelled down the path towards the shooting lodge for luncheon, Mary was both irritated and disheartened. She wished she had an opportunity to get away from Henry for a short time again; standing by him at the drives and sitting beside him in the wagonette was making today almost unbearable. She spend plenty of time with him elsewhere, but since she had stood by Matthew for a short time and tasted a small bit of freedom, experiencing company with another man, she did not want to see Henry for the rest of the day. The rest of the holiday, as a matter of fact.

"Mary, are you alright?" Sybil asked as she climbed down from the wagonette. "You're looking a little down—"

"I'm fine," Mary interjected. She knew Sybil could certainly see through her lie: she was wringing her hands, her eyes downcast.

Sybil took hold of her arm and guided her to the edge of the path, out of the way of the rest of the shooters. "Sybil, what are you doing?"

"Yes Sybil, what _are_ you doing?"

Henry took a stride towards the two of them. Mary felt her heart quicken. The way he looked at them both – he made her think of a wolf pausing before attacking some livestock.

"I just want a quick word with Mary," Sybil said, defiantly holding her gaze with Henry. "You go in and sit down. We'll come in in a moment. We won't be long."

This was one of the times Mary was glad to have such a strong-willed sister. Sybil didn't live with Henry, she didn't feel afraid of him. She was staring at Henry with such a hard glare that Mary imagined not even Tom had the nerve to challenge.

And thanfully, Henry knew better than to argue with Sybil in front of everyone. He stalked through the doorway, leaving Mary and Sybil alone as the rest of the shooting party trickled into the lodge.

Mary felt her insides unclench and her heartbeat slow down. Her arms had tensed up from preparing to feel Henry grasp them and forcefully haul her towards the lodge. "What is it?"

"I just wanted to ask you, were things alright between you and Matthew?"

Mary hesitated, not sure of the answer Sybil wanted to hear. "Do you mean we got on?"

Sybil nodded. "Did you talk at all?"

"We did," Mary admitted. "Not a lot, though. Neither of us were cross with each other, so I suppose we were friendly enough."

She looked at Sybil queerly. "What exactly are you trying to do? Why were you so eager that I stand by him for the first drive?"

"I thought it would be nice for the both of you," Sybil answered. "He didn't have anyone else, and you'd be stuck with Henry for the rest of the shoot."

"Well, I didn't need either you or Tom interfering," Mary snapped. Before Sybil could explain any further, she spat out, "Look, whatever it is you're trying to do with me and Matthew, don't bother anymore. It's not worth it."

"Mary, I'm not trying to do anything," Sybil protested. "But you and Matthew—"

"Please don't lie to me," Mary said, blinking back her angry tears. "It's not worth it," she repeated as she stomped away.

Keeping her face down as she rubbed her face clean of tears, she hastened to the table being set for luncheon. She sat down at her seat so hard that the legs clattered against the brick floor.

"What did Sybil want?" Henry asked immediately.

"It was nothing," Mary responded. "Just her lecturing me about how I should eat now that I'm pregnant."

"Hmm." Once more, Henry seemed unconvinced by an answer Mary gave him, but he had better sense than to press the matter further.

Matthew was sitting close to the other end of the table. He was too far away for her to talk to him. _So that's it, then_ , she said to herself. _That was the last private conversation I'll have with him_.

She had loved those few moments with Matthew. And she knew she'd never have another one like them again. That was what made her upset most of all – the moments had flown by, too quickly for her to grasp them and realize how precious they were to her.

* * *

Mary half-expected Henry to confront her about her standing with Matthew during the shoot. Her expectations were confirmed just before dinner.

"Mary?" Henry knocked before entering their bedroom, already in white tie.

"Yes darling?" She was still at the vanity, her lady's maid positioning a tiara into her trussed-up hair.

"You look quite lovely," Henry said, approving of her appearance. At least he wouldn't have to start an unpleasant conversation with a criticism of her wardrobe. Mary could tell that he hadn't simply come into their bedroom to admire her. He would have gone downstairs to the drawing room, where the rest of the family was waiting.

Mary dismissed her lady's maid with a nod. "Thank you, that'll be fine."

Henry watched the maid leave the room, staring hard at the closed door as if he thought she'd come back in again.

"What is it? You should be downstairs by now," Mary remarked. She was making a show of preening in front of the mirror, but she was keeping Henry in her sights as he paced the floor behind her.

"I just came to check on how you were doing. I noticed that you were rather … rather glum since we got back from the shoot," Henry said.

"I told you, I was simply tired from walking and standing everywhere," Mary said, parrotting what she had said when Mama had asked her why she was so quiet during tea. "It can be rather exhausting doing nothing."

"I can imagine," Henry retorted dryly, "but even so, I wouldn't expect you to be completely enervated by standing around all morning. The baby's not that big yet, surely it can't be a burden to carry now."

 _It is a burden,_ Mary thought angrily _, a burden you gave me_.

"Please don't question why I feel the way I do," she said aloud. "I hardly know why myself."

Nevertheless, Henry continued. "You didn't talk at all during tea, and rarely during luncheon."

"So? People don't normally talk very much when they're tired." Mary pulled her gloves up higher on her arm and pushed herself away from the vanity. "We really should go down now, or Mama will have a fit—"

But when she stood up, Henry was right there in front of her, blocking her path to the door.

"I also noticed that Matthew Crawley hardly spoke at tea as well," Henry stated.

Mary's hands gripped the edge of her vanity as she stared into Henry's eyes. "Wh – what does that matter?"

Henry shrugged, as though his observation was only by chance, but Mary guessed he had probably had his eye on Matthew the entire day. "Oh, I don't know. I just wondered if something had happened during the first drive, when the two of you were together."

Mary frowned, opening her mouth to contradict him, but he cut in again. "Mary, I simply want to know if he said anything to you that upset you."

"He didn't!" Mary immediately replied. "Matthew would never say anything to upset me."

She couldn't deny that Henry was perceptive – of course she had been miserable since the end of the first drive, but that wasn't due to anything Matthew had said or done. It was her fault, really, that she had allowed herself to get close to him when she knew she'd regret it. But if Henry suspected Matthew of doing something with her that he didn't like – Mary couldn't guess what he'd do, but she couldn't bear to let it happen to Matthew.

"Are you sure, Mary?" Henry said slowly, perhaps Mary would confess to something. "Are you absolutely certain?"

It was the dangerous look in his eyes that warned him, if he suspected for a moment that Matthew Crawley had done something he disapproved of, Matthew would definitely be in a lot of trouble.

"Yes!" Mary cried out. "Now let me go!"

Her outburst startled her just as much as it shocked him, and when she tried to push past him for the safety of the door, her foot caught itself around one of the legs of the vanity bench. Before she tumbled to the floor, though, Henry caught her by her upper body.

"Thank you," she said, even though she'd rather bruise herself by falling to the floor than letting him touch her again.

Henry helped her stand back up again, but he didn't let go of her. "You need to check your behavior before going downstairs," he snarled. "This isn't appropriate."

He meant two things by that: obviously he wasn't pleased at Mary shouting at him, and neither was he entertained by the thought of Mary even having a small, friendly chat with Matthew. No matter if what Matthew said made Mary upset or happy. As far as Henry was concerned, Matthew wasn't good company.

Mary avoided Henry's hard stare as he released her. His fingers had wrinkled the waist of her dress. As she pinched the folds to straighten them out, he opened the bedroom door. "Come along, then, if you think you can control yourself."

Mary nodded contritely, cowed again.

She walked down the gallery with him following her. She could practically feel his burning glare searing the back of her neck. Her sides still ached from when he caught her; even saving her from a bloody nose wasn't a painless matter.

 _Why are you like this?_ she wondered, wishing she could scream those words in his face. _Why do you act like such a monster?_

Down the stairs she trudged, Henry pursuing her closely. "Smile, Mary," he told her. "It's New Year's Eve, and everyone will want to see your lovely smile."

Her smile could not be more forced than if Henry took his fingers and turned up the corners of her mouth. It fooled everyone, thankfully, as she entered the drawing room, Henry right at her side.

"There you are!" Granny sat in her usual armchair, beaming at Mary. "We were beginning to wonder if you'd join us in the end."

"Of course," Mary replied. "It's New Year's Eve." She took a cocktail from the tray offered by Carson and sat down next to her grandmother. Henry also picked up a glass, but walked to where Tom and Sybil were standing at one corner of the room.

Mary watched with apprehension. _He's not going to ask about why Sybil and Tom insisted I join Matthew for the first drive, is he?_

Henry started talking directly to Tom, leaving Sybil to wander elsewhere. Tom grinned at something Henry said to him, and Mary felt herself relax. Thank God, perhaps he had let the issue go …

"Tell me, how did the shoot go today?" Granny inquired.

Mary sipped her cocktail before answering. "Rather well, I think. It was a bit chilly, but not too damp."

"I imagine Henry was quite a good shot." Granny sounded like she didn't entirely believe her own words. "He enjoys bragging about his own skill at the sport."

"He did well," Mary said stiffly. _Please, please don't ask me anything about Matthew_.

"And how did Matthew do?"

Mary's fingers clenched around the cocktail glass. This was just her luck. Of course Granny would ask that, she always knew …

Matthew wasn't in the room, she realized just then. She had expected him to be down here with everyone else – perhaps that's why they hadn't moved into the dining room yet.

"I … I only stood by him for the first drive. He did well enough," she professed. "Where is he?"

"Oh, he simply went to use the telephone," Granny explained. "Hopefully he'll be finished soon and then we can all finally eat."

Mary nodded. She looked back at where Henry and Tom were still congenially chatting away, and then to Sybil who was standing with Edith, Mama, and Aunt Rosamund, who had only just arrived in the evening. Papa was sitting with a cocktail in one hand and scratching Isis behind the ears with the other. Everything seemed so normal, as normal as any family like this one could be. Why couldn't Mary feel like things were normal with _herself_?

To think that once she had dreamed of having a life outside of Downton, of having her own home to run. Now all she wanted was to be back here, surrounded by the people she knew she loved, without any troubles to fret over every waking minute. She wanted to go back to the days before the war, those solitary days when all she had to do was go to dress fittings and wait to marry. She hadn't been fully satisfied with her life, but she wasn't miserable either.

"Oh Matthew, there you are," said Granny.

Mary lifted her head to see Matthew reenter the drawing room. He appeared somewhat enervated himself, and he had on the facial expression that indicated he wasn't quite there, instead preoccupied with his own thoughts.

"I apologize, I didn't realize that call would take quite so long."

Granny waved her hand. "It's alright, we were kept busy waiting for Mary and her husband."

Matthew nodded, his eyes glancing in Henry's direction before he looked at Mary. "Good evening, Mary."

"Matthew," Mary muttered in return. _Please don't try to make conversation, not now—_

"Dinner is served, m'lady," Carson announced from the door.

 _Thank goodness,_ Mary said to herself as everyone set down their cocktail glasses on the nearest surface and began moving out of the drawing room. She knew she was at one side of the table, and Matthew would be at the opposite. She wouldn't have to suppress the desire to strike up another conversation with him, which she knew would happen if he were sitting right next to her.

Henry wasn't normally a jealous man, but Mary knew he was harboring suspicions – of what exactly she couldn't be sure, but he was watching her in his hawkish manner as the family moved into the dining room.

How could he, so confident that he was Mary's 'true love,' be afraid of the attentions of Matthew Crawley?


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: So, yes, I realize that at the beginning of the last chapter I promised that updates would be more regular, but I put this off until I was absolutely in a good mindset to write this. **The reason being is that, in this chapter, there is a scene that some readers may find disturbing and triggering, or simply difficult to read.** **Because it's sort of a spoiler, I don't want to specify exactly what it is, but i** **f you didn't want to read the self-harm scene in Chapter Five, you won't want to read what's in here. It comes after the horizontal line break about halfway through, so you don't need to skip through the whole chapter.**_

 _That being said, those who do read this chapter, I hope you enjoy this long-overdue update, and as always, reviews are greatly appreciated!_

* * *

Chapter Nine

Mary had had plenty of unpleasant meals within the dining room at Downton – including the ones she had been suffering through during this holiday – but tonight had to be the worst in her memory.

Her anxiousness about Henry had already set this dinner up to be one she'd rather miss. She was irritated and tired too, and she wanted to go to bed immediately, never mind if she climbed beneath the sheets still fully clothed in her evening attire. But it was made all the more unbearable as she sat opposite both Henry and Matthew, with Sybil separating the two of them. She could see every gesture they made, every small change in their expressions – and when Henry's eyes flickered in her direction every muscle in her body seemed to tense up.

Henry only made Mary more nervous when, unexpectedly, he began talking directly to Matthew. Whatever his intentions were, Mary couldn't discern them, but this certainly was not simply casual, well-meaning conversation. He hadn't let things go from earlier, and now it appeared he was targeting Matthew next. Was he trying to make Matthew unknowingly reveal something about him and Mary that give him more reason to be suspicious or jealous?

"Where did you and Mary first meet, Mr Crawley?" Henry asked Matthew.

Had anyone else asked that, Mary would have only been slightly embarrassed at having to recall what she still believed to be a ridiculous scenario. But with Henry, he wasn't simply asking out of curiosity – he knew the answer. She had told him once before: she had met Matthew for the first time at Crawley house a short while after he had arrived in Downton. That was all she had told him, and he hadn't shown any interest in learning anything more. So what in God's name was he trying to do by asking Matthew about it?

Indeed, Matthew did look a little surprised about this question being posed. He cleared his throat nervously, and Mary imagined the awkward memories filling his head, just as they were for her.

"Well … when I first came to Downton … it was Mary who was the first to greet me and my mother," Matthew explained. He glanced quickly at Mary.

"How kind of her," Henry quipped, picking up his wine glass to sip. "I'm sure she gave you a warm welcome."

His eyes looked in Mary's direction, evidently expecting her to give some indication of the fact, but Mary only cringed. Matthew too was seemingly made uncomfortable by Henry's assumptive statement: his went rigid and his face paled. There was no way he'd ever forget how coldly Mary had regarded him at that first meeting.

"It was as warm as it could possibly be, given the circumstances," he managed to say, however.

Henry quirked and eyebrow. "Given the circumstances? What do you mean by that?"

"Well, it was …" Matthew murmured, "it wasn't necessarily a … a meeting we were excited for."

He didn't appear confident in how he worded it, for he glanced at Mary in a sort of plea for help in explaining it better. But Mary didn't want to go into more detail about it – she wanted this pointless talk to be over as soon as possible. Couldn't Papa bring something up about the tenants or even Tom about what was going on in Dublin?

"What do you—" Henry said, but then realization replaced his mock confusion. "Oh, I see – it was about that dreadful inheritance business, wasn't it?"

"Darling, I'm sure this is a bore for the rest of us," Mary dismissed, hoping against hope that it would be enough to cut short the conversation. "We've all put it in the past."

"I'm not interested in the business with the will and such. I was simply curious about the history your friendship with Mr Crawley," Henry explained in such an innocent tone that everyone else – with the possible exception of Granny – might be fooled that that _was_ what he wanted to know more about. "You seemed like such good friends, I noticed it when you were together during the shoot … chatting away like old friends."

Mary felt her blood run cold: Henry _had_ been keeping an eye on them from a distance. She swallowed, trying to maintain her unruffled composure, but every word Henry directed at either her or Matthew chipped away a little bit more of her ability to keep her cool.

Matthew, however, did not sense the underlying embitterment of Henry's words. "Well, we _are_ old friends."

It was said innocently enough, yet he reacted as if the statement had tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. Mary raised her head in shock, fingers clenched around stem of her wine glass. _What have you done, Matthew?_

Henry met this declaration with a smile. "Yes, old friends. Wouldn't you agree Mary, that the two of you are friends?"

Mary could feeling nearly every pair of eyes aimed at her, and the collection of gazes made her cheeks feel flushed. She couldn't decide if it would be right to admit it – if she did, would Henry take that as evidence to suspect there was something more between them?

And was it even true? Was she still friends with Matthew, even when they had not seen each other for years? Matthew had said so, but he had reacted as though he had unconsciously lied. They had been friends once, but were they still? Or was the friendliness they had expressed with each other today simply a one-off?

She felt cornered, stuck between a rock and a hard place. If she admitted to Henry that she, even only at one time, considered Matthew a friend, he'd take that as reason to be jealous towards Matthew. And if she denied it … the distance between her and Matthew would stretch further than it ever had been. She couldn't alienate him, make him think that he meant nothing to her, but Henry was testing her, and if she failed the results would be disastrous to both her Matthew.

"We _were_ good friends," she answered, then adding quickly, "years ago."

Mary didn't dare look at Matthew. She only needed to raise her gaze enough to see Sybil's disappointed look, as if to scold her, "What were you thinking?"

 _What am I thinking?_ Mary thought. _What am I doing? What have I done?_

In that moment, she knew she must have lost Matthew for good. She didn't truly mean it, but he couldn't know that – all her words signified was that her former friendship, and the closeness they had shared during the shoot, meant nothing to her anymore.

She could feel the same rage from the night she learned of her pregnancy filling up insider her again. She wanted to cry out, "I don't really mean it!" and plead for Matthew's forgiveness, assure him that his companionship meant so much more to her than her marriage did. And she wanted even more to lash out as violently as she could at Henry – toss her wine glass at his head, lean across the table and strike him with anything she could grab hold of, scream in his face, scream until her voice cracked …

But she didn't. She couldn't make herself.

This was different that what she had ever experience before when she became quietly angry at Henry – it was like rage at herself for getting caught up in this whole ugly mess. She never should have agreed to stand with Matthew at the shoot, or even allowed herself to talk to him at all.

For the rest of the dinner she didn't say anything more. Every swallow of food or wine felt like it might choke her. She tired herself out just from fighting back her tears and the urge to scream. The room and everyone in it was nothing but a blur around her, and their voices distant and faded. She could almost feel herself detaching from the rest of the world, sinking further and further into her tormented thoughts.

So when the dinner finally ended, Mary was surprised that she could stand up out of her chair without collapsing. She followed the rest of the women into the drawing room as the men remained, the footmen handing round the cigar boxes. Before she exited the dining room glimpsed Henry and Matthew sitting with only one empty seat between them. What might happen out of her sight? Would Henry bring up the matter of what happened during the first drive?

It was all she could think about as she waited in the drawing room, her coffee cup sitting full in her lap. At the first sound of the men coming on their way, she shot up, striding out into the hall and catching Henry by the arm.

"I have to talk to you." Her voice sounded gravelly and she struggled to keep her head up.

Henry let Mary pull him aside, far enough from the drawing room so they wouldn't be seen or heard. "Darling, what's the matter? Is it the baby?"

"What was all that about?" she demanded.

Henry frowned. "Mary, what are you talking about?"

Mary scoffed, bristling at his tone. "You know what. You, with me and Matthew, asking silly questions like some prosecutor!" She blinked rapidly to keep her tears back. " _Why_? I told you before, there's nothing—"

"Are you feeling alright Mary?" Henry interrupted. He cupped her cheek. "I knew you were much too tired to be down here. Perhaps you should go up—"

Mary jerked away from his hand, earning her a severe glare from Henry. "I'm _not_ tired, I want to know why you're being such a … such a …"

Henry pursed his lips, waiting for Mary to call him whatever she had in mind. But she faltered eventually, and he cut in before she could go on.

"Whatever you think I am, I'm not," he insisted. "What I do, I do for you. I only want to get to the bottom of what's going on between you and Matthew."

"There's _nothing_!" Mary snapped. "Absolutely nothing! What did you think you'd find out by asking if we were friends. That's all we ever were."

Henry took in a long, slow breath. "We both know that's not true, Mary. Once, you _were_ more than friends."

"And that was a long time ago. We've both moved on," Mary contended.

From the look in Henry's eyes, she realized he didn't fully believe her. "I'm serious, there's nothing between us anymore."

It seemed like nothing she said could persuade Henry. "I can't know that for sure. When I saw you two together this morning … you acted as though you were married to _him_." He spoke with such bitterness, as though Mary had intended to offend him. "Why would you do this to me, Mary? I thought this holiday could be the chance to strengthen our bond, but you go off and devote your attentions to other men."

Mary sighed, growing more frustrated by the second. "That's not fair—"

"No, it's not fair of you, Mary." Henry was angry, obviously, but disappointed as well it seemed. Was he feigning hurt, or was he actually upset by what she had done? "It's not fair on either of us. You mustn't let yourself forget that he is a single man, while _you_ are a married woman, but he won't care about that. He'll try to pull you in, and then one thing will lead to another."

Mary gasped softly. "Matthew would _never_ do that!" she defended. "I don't know if you've noticed, but he still acts like it's been only a month since Lavinia died. But no matter what, he wouldn't dare to steal me away."

"How can you be sure of what he might do?" Henry shook his head. "I'm sorry if you think I'm being irrational, but this is for your sake. For you and our baby." He reached out to brush his fingers against Mary's stomach as he leaned in closer, and Mary couldn't help but recoil. "Do you remember how hard I fought for your love? To prove that I truly loved you?"

Mary nodded shakily.

"And when we were married just a few months after we met, how we were the happiest couple ever to walk this earth? As though nothing could tear us apart?"

Mary nodded again, remaining silent. Henry lifted her chin up with one finger, forcing her to look directly into his eyes. If there were tears forming in her eyes, he would notice.

"I won't let anyone else take you away from me," Henry declared. "You are my wife, and I love you dearly. And I _will not_ let you ruin yourself."

He'd be saying much the same thing if he was telling her he was her master – she belonged to him, and she could have no freedom. Mary wished that it was just the wine talking, that he was being unconsciously senseless, but her every instinct told her that he knew very well what he was saying.

Henry kissed her forehead, stroking her smooth cheek. "I want only the best for you, Mary. I'm looking out for you. But it is up to you to be careful. Tell Matthew to stay away from you if you wish."

"Don't worry. I'm sure that after tonight, he won't need me to tell him," Mary muttered despondently.

"Make sure he realizes that," Henry said. He regarded her pityingly, kissing her forehead again. "I hope this will all be resolved soon. This may simply be due your imbalances due to your pregnancy, but you must learn to have control over them."

"I'm sure that's all it is," Mary agreed. "I promise, I won't let this happen again."

Henry smiled, satisfied for the time being. "I trust you in that."

He set off back towards the drawing room, but Mary remained rooted to her spot. "Come back to the drawing room – you don't want to miss the New Year's champagne."

Tonelessly, Mary replied, "I be right there. I just … I need to fetch something from my room."

Henry accepted this response and returned to the drawing room. As soon as he was out of her sight, Mary rushed over to the staircase, hugging the railing to keep from collapsing.

She could have slapped him right then and there, told him off, screamed at him … but she just couldn't. All her longing to give him a piece of her mind led to nothing. She had tried over and over again to find some small reason to keep living through this marriage, but too many times she had failed. There was nothing left to make it worthwhile.

And now, something inside her was changing. It was like she no longer had the will to fight back. She had lost control over everything, her life, her freedom, her mind. What was the point of fighting anymore if Henry only broke her spirit with each little defiance, like a dictator with no tolerance for disobedience? He wouldn't even let her share a laugh with an old friend … a friend who was now lost to her as well.

 _I can't do this_ , she thought with the ultimate despair. _I can't do this anymore._

She couldn't bear this life any longer.

She was about to climb the stairs again when she heard Sybil calling out to her. "Mary? Where are you going?"

"Back to my room," Mary answered immediately. "I need to fetch something … a handkerchief."

And she ascended the stairs as quickly as her heels could carry her.

* * *

Something was terribly wrong, Sybil thought.

She knew that, when Mary had taken Henry to speak out in the man hall, that it could only end in tears. Henry would not let Mary say what she wanted to. And when Henry returned to the drawing room alone, Sybil's only instinct was to go out and check on Mary.

And watching her sister hurry up the stairs as if she were about to miss something, Sybil wondered if she should follow. Her gut was telling her the real reason Mary had gone up couldn't be simply to fetch a handkerchief. She had seen how Mary had acted throughout the dinner, and whatever she had just discussed with Henry couldn't have amended any of her woes – more likely it added to them.

Tom poked his head out of the drawing room. "Sybil? What are you doing? It's only a few minutes to midnight."

Sybil hesitated, glancing between Tom and the staircase. By now Mary must be on the gallery, heading to her room. Sybil craned her neck to see if she could spot her, but it was too dark upstairs.

"Sybil? What's going on?" asked Tom, a bit more worriedly.

She made a motion to hush him up as she went over to him. "Something's going on with Mary. I need you to stay here, and don't let Henry out of your sight."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Tom looked behind him, where everyone was still casually chatting.

"I don't know for sure," Sybil whispered. trying to stifle her growing panic. "If anyone asks, just say that Mary was feeling ill and I've gone to help."

Tom nodded. "Do you need me to come with you?"

Sybil thought quickly. "Tell them what I just said to you, that Mary's ill and I'm helping her. If I don't come back down in three minutes, go upstairs. I think she's in her room."

"Alright." Tom looked back at the people in the drawing room. "I can do that."

"Thank you."

Sybil turned and rushed back to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Her heart was pounding uncontrollably, her fear forming a pit of nausea in her stomach. _Please Mary, please be fine,_ she thought.

But her hopes that everything was fine were dashed and her fears escalated when she tried the bedroom door handle. It was locked fast and wouldn't budge at all – Sybil wondered if there was a chair or stool propped against it as well. She tapped the door lightly, softly calling out. "Mary? Are you alright?"

She didn't hear anything at first, but when she jiggled the door handle again she heard someone moving around inside. Her voice was high-pitched with worry as she said, "Mary, please answer me. What are you doing in there?"

"Sybil, I'm fine," came Mary's firm response. "Go back downstairs."

Sybil couldn't make out what exactly Mary was doing, but she was moving around her bedroom. She heard the clink of something heavy on wood – setting her jewelry down at her vanity, Sybil realized.

"Mary, if you're going to bed, just tell me," she said. "Everyone's wondering where you are. It's almost midnight."

"I _am_ going to bed, so just leave me alone." Mary sounded more like she had just gotten the idea from Sybil.

"Then why is the door bolted?"

Silence. Sybil could still feel her heart pounding madly, and her alarm was only growing with each passing second. "Mary, if you don't open this door, I'll break it down!"

"Just go away!"

There was the sound of another door slamming, and Sybil's insides lurched as she realized it was the door to the bathroom. She jerked at the handle furiously. "Mary, let me in _right now_!"

"I said go away!" Mary's voice was much more muffled, and it sounded overlaid with angry tears. "Just leave me alone!"

Sybil would do no such thing, and she wasn't going to let a locked door keep her out. "I'm coming in whether you like it or not!"

She pushed against the door with her shoulder as hard as she could, but she hardly made it shift. "No, shit!" Sybil groaned as she gripped at the handle. The handle wouldn't dislocate in the slightest either.

"Mary, please!" She banged the door with her palm. "Mary, let me in!"

She tried at the door again, but there was no way she could make it budge on her own. It was clear Mary wasn't going to let her in. Sybil backed away from the door, hands shaking. "Oh God," she whispered. "God, please no!"

She fled as fast she could back downstairs, across the main fall floor and right into the drawing room.

Champagne was already being handed out. It was only a matter of seconds before questions would be raised about Mary's whereabouts. Sybil hurried over to where Tom was standing and grabbed Tom's wrist; without giving a reason to anyone else why she was stealing a bewildered Tom, she pulled him out of the drawing room.

Tom could see Sybil's panic on her face as she let go of his wrist. "Sybil, what's happening?"

Sybil was already running towards the staircase. "You've got to help me break down Mary's door. She's locked it, and she won't come out."

That was all the explanation Tom needed as he bolted up the stairs, Sybil following as closely as she could. He stopped outside Mary's door and, like Sybil had moments before, tried to dislocated the handle. It was too strong even for him.

"Damn!" Tom realized he was going to have to break down the door. "Stand back, Sybil."

Sybil backed away just as Tom hurled himself at the door as forcefully as he could. It shook on its hinges, but it wasn't any closer to shifting. He lunged again, his shoulder smashing against the wood, and that time Sybil heard something metal clink out of place.

"The lock! Try the lock again," she cried. Tom gripped the handle and jolted it around. Something must have come loose, for it finally turned, but something on the other side was preventing the door from swinging open.

Over and over again, Tom rammed the door with his entire body, attempting to shift whatever was blocking it, as Sybil franctically looked around to see if anyone, a servant or one of her parents, was coming. If anyone saw, they might immediately fetch Henry, and the last thing anyone here needed was him interfering. And what might Mary do if she heard a horde of people trying to break into her bedroom.

"Hurry, Tom," she said as she pressed her arm against the door, pushing as hard as she could. She knew that someone had probably already been sent to retrieve them, climbing the stairs at this very moment.

"I'm trying," Tom grunted.

His next thrust finally managed to dislodge whatever was obstructing the door, but only just enough to get the door open a crack. Sybil bent down and reached through the gap, grasping around until she felt the leg of what she recognized to be the bench of the vanity. It was propped up sideways right under the handle, stuck in a position so that the door could be opened more than a few inches. She pushed it all the way onto the floor so that the door could swing open the whole way.

"There!" She pushed the door open wide enough to fit through before shoving the overturned bench towards the wall. "Mary?"

The bathroom door was closed, and Sybil rushed to pry it open. It was locked, as she knew it would be, but with both her and Tom bearing down on the handle with all their might, the bolt snapped clean off. Without a second of hesitation, despite the panic gripping her heart, Sybil rushed into the bathroom.

"Mary! Oh God!" she shrieked.

For all of the horrifying sights she had seen as a nurse, both during the war and at the Dublin hospital, nothing had ever come close to giving her as severe a shock as the sight she encountered in the bathroom.

Mary was slumped against the bathtub, arms hanging limply across her lap. One hand was weakly holding the handle of a straight razor. A stream of blood was already spreading over the tiled floor. Her eyes were open, but dazed and unfocused. Her lips were moving, but whatever she was trying to say was so quiet Sybil couldn't make it out. She was conscious, but barely, and Sybil feared she'd pass out within a minute.

She fell to her knee's beside Mary, cupping her face. "Mary? Can you hear me? Mary, look at me, please."

Mary's eyes flickered toward's Sybil, but it was like she couldn't completely see what was right in front of her. How could she be fading already?

"Jesus," Tom breathed. His eyes were wide, and he looked even closer to fainting than Sybil did.

"Tom, give me your tailcoat – quick," Sybil ordered. She tried to take the dirty straight razor away, but Mary's fingers suddenly tightened around it. Sybil caught her weak murmurs of "no, no."

"Mary, I have to." Wrenching the straight razor out of Mary's grasp, Sybil reached up to place it in the sink basin. She took Tom's tailcoat which he was holding out and tore off a sleeve, then wrapped it around Mary's injured wrist. After she was done binding the makeshift bandage, she remained still for a moment, letting her heart slow down from its panic-induced hammering, looking Mary over.

This was what everything came to. This was where her despair had brought her. She believed herself to be beyond any help, past the point of no return. Whatever Henry had said to her had been the final straw. Thanks to him, and had she not been so quick to realize something was wrong, Sybil might have broken into here to find her sister dead. That could have been the reality she would be facing instead of this one right now, and it made her feel cold inside.

With the back of her hand, Sybil rubbed away her tears. "She hasn't lost too much blood, I think," she muttered hoarsely. "It was a good thing she didn't remember to run the bath."

Mary must have felt faint immediately after she made the cut, and thus lost the energy to do anything else to quicken the end. The blood loss from her one injured wrist probably would have been enough if Sybil and Tom hadn't found her so soon.

"What are we going to tell your parents?" Tom asked. "What are we going to tell Henry?"

Sybil kept staring at Mary's face – almost peaceful, except for the tears running down her cheeks. Her head shook, almost imperceptibly, and Sybil heard more faint murmurs of the word 'no' over and over again. Was this a plea for them not to tell Henry, or regret about failing to take her own life?

"I don't know," Sybil sighed, her own tears falling. "I don't know what we should do now."

She remembered everyone waiting downstairs in the drawing room – midnight had probably already passed. She looked down at her bloody hands and her stained evening dress; _she_ certainly couldn't go back downstairs. If Tom could come up with a reason why he was missing his tailcoat, he could give the family an excuse as to why Sybil and Mary weren't coming back downstairs.

"You go down, and tell the others Mary became ill, and I'm helping to clean her up and put her to bed," she decided finally. "Don't let them come up here until I come out. Then …" She looked at Mary's bound wrist; anyone who saw it would know what she had done. "Henry can't sleep with her tonight. I think it would be best if she and I slept in one of the guest bedrooms. She mustn't be left alone tonight."

Tom sighed. "Then what? What happens tomorrow if Henry asks to see her, or asks what's wrong with her?"

"I'll bring her back to her home in London," Sybil answered. "This holiday has been too much for her, she can't stay at Downton any longer. I can tell Henry that she's only a little bit sick, that she needs to rest at home so she can be closer to her doctor, but she'll be fine in a few days."

And after … what would happen after?

The first thing to do, however, was get through tonight. Tom went back downstairs and explained, as persuasively as he could, that Mary had been taken ill and his tailcoat hadn't been able to evade the messier parts. A guest bedroom was made up for Sybil and Mary to sleep in, and they'd take the morning train back to London.

"But should I go with them?" Henry asked. "Will she be alright without me?"

"Sybil said it's probably best to stay here until the doctor sees what's wrong with her," Tom explained. "She suspects it might be the flu, so it's orobably best that you stay here."

Henry frowned. "Will the baby be alright?"

"Sybil thinks so," Tom answered. "Everything seems fine for now, but that's why she wants Mary to go home as soon as possible."

While Tom was downstairs, Sybil set to work cleaning up the bathroom as thoroughly as she could. Sybil scrubbed the wet washcloth as hard as she could across the floor, but blood had seeped into the grout between the tiles, and she had to be content with leaving a faint pink colouring at the base of the tub. She shuddered as she wiped the blood from Henry's razor, and briefly she wondered if she _should_ tell him the truth – it was gruesome to imagine Henry shaving himself tomorrow morning with the same blade that Mary had tried to kill herself with.

That was up to Mary, Sybil decided. Her priority was to stay with Mary to make sure she didn't attempt something like this again.

Tom and Sybil managed to get Mary to stand up and walk with them supporting her, though she was still so dazed that walking to the guest bedroom took all of ten minutes as opposed to the normal two. Sybil got Mary changed into her nightgown and put the bloodstained evening dress in Mary's suitcase. She wasn't sure how she might explain the blood – it was noticeable even though the dress was dark in hue. There was probably someplace in London that Mary sent her dresses to be cleaned; Sybil would need to ask the lady's maid about it.

A short while later, Mary was finally in bed and the bathroom completely cleaned up of any signs of blood. Sybil left her only briefly to kiss Malachy goodnight, but when she returned Mary was still lying in bed, eyes wide open.

"Mary?" Sybil approached the bed cautiously. "Do you need me to get you something to help you sleep?"

Mary shook her head, hair tangling against the pillow. She didn't look at Sybil as she murmured, "If you can get me a different life ..."

Sybil sighed. "I do want that for you, I really do." She sat down on the bed beside Mary's near-motionless figure. "Mary, we _will_ find a way."

The vacant expression in Mary's eyes conveyed her hopelessness all too well. "I can't take any more. I can't live like this for one more day."

Sybil was silent. She didn't know what to say to make Mary believe otherwise – if there was anything she could say. Henry had broken her down so much by now that to her, it must seem like nothing could be worth living for. She was trapped with Henry, with no chance of escaping her nightmare. She had borne her misery for too long, and it was too much now.

"I can't even die right," Mary added bitterly. "I can't even get rid of this bloody baby!"

Her injured wrist lay across her stomach. She screwed up her eyes to keep tears from falling, but they ran down her face anyway. "Am I doomed to keep living like this?"

"This won't be forever," Sybil told her. "Tom and I _are_ going to help you, however we can."

Mary remained as still as a corpse, not saying anything. Sybil waited for another minute in case she wanted to say anything more, but then picked up her own nightgown that was draped across a chair. She changed right in the bedroom, keeping both eyes fixed on Mary. Until Mary fell deep asleep, Sybil wouldn't take her eyes off of her or leave her alone. She was still in a suicidal mindset, and Mary could press her face into her pillow and suffocate herself in a matter of seconds.

But Mary was still in the same position as before when Sybil climbed into bed next to her. "Try to sleep," Sybil advised her. "We'll be leaving rather early tomorrow."

"Will Henry be there?" Mary asked feebly.

"Tom convinced him to wait a few days before coming home," Sybil answered. "Seems like the flu is the only reason Henry would stay away from you."

"He won't keep away for very long," Mary muttered.

Sybil readjusted her pillow beneath her head. It felt a bit odd being in the same bed as her sister, a situation neither of them had been in since they were children in the nursery, as well as not having Tom next to her.

"We could tell Henry," she said after a pause. "If he knew … he might understand, and let you get a divorce."

Mary blinked sleepily. "I honestly … I don't know what he would do. I … I don't know anymore … if he still loves me. If he still loves me _enough_."

"Enough to let you go, you mean?"

Mary didn't answer; her eyes were closed, and her breathing evened out. She'd be fast asleep in a few minutes, and then Sybil too could finally get her rest. They'd get through the night … but getting through the following days would be the real test.


	10. Chapter 10

_I apologize that this is fairly short chapter in which not a lot happens, but I wanted to get this posted before I go away to uni ( I wasn't able to get it posted earlier this week because I was on vacation and the hotel didn't have wifi which I could stay connected to for more than two minutes). I see this chapter as the end of Act I to this fic, Act I being Mary's downhill spiral – which means that after this, things may start to go uphill for both Mary and Matthew._ _However, this may mean that it will be an extended period of time until another chapter to this is posted, so be warned that a short hiatus may be taking place (so please_ do not _ask me to update soon or when I will update)._

 _That being said, I hope you enjoy this short chapter, and have enjoyed the story so far. Your reviews are very encouraging, and I hope you continue to read and review even when I'm not updating as regularly. So thank you for reading (even though I'm causing more angst than is probably healthy)!_

* * *

Chapter Ten

 _January 1922_

The train was due to leave at eight, so both Mary and Sybil were roused at seven to dress and then be downstairs for a quick breakfast. All of Mary's things were already packed, and Sybil was bringing a case of clothes that would last her for a few days. If it was needed, she'd have Tom send her other luggage down to Mary's house.

"Are you sure you're ready to travel?" Sybil asked Mary, seeing her sister repeatedly yawn and fruitlessly rub the fatigue out of her eyes. They had only gotten about six hours of sleep, and she knew that was hardly the amount of time Mary usually slept for. On top of that, Mary's grief would have exhausted her. "We can take the next train, and you can sleep for another hour or so."

Mary shook her head and groaned, "The sooner I get away from this place, the better."

Sybil nodded. "Then you go downstairs and get some breakfast. I just want to say goodbye to Malachy first."

Mary didn't feel all that hungry, but Sybil would insist that she eat something anyway. And it wasn't so bad knowing that she'd have a meal alone: it was too early for Henry to be downstairs. She didn't want to see his face at all; if she heard him coming down the stairs, she'd hurl herself into the car and drive to the station herself, with or without Sybil and her luggage.

But when she went into the breakfast room, she got a surprise that she wasn't sure how to react to. Matthew was sitting at the table, already eating, and he looked up as Mary came through the doorway.

"Mary … good morning," he said haltingly. "How are you … I mean, how do you feel? I heard last night that you were ill."

"I'm alright," Mary said. She collected herself and went to the sideboard for some eggs. The thought of eating meat right now made her stomach turn. "What are you doing up so early?" she asked as casually as she could.

"I'm catching the early train back to London," Matthew explained. "I telephoned the house last night, said I would return a bit earlier than I planned."

Mary remembered how Matthew had been at the telephone while everyone else was in the drawing room before dinner. "I see," she murmured. "Is there a reason why you're returning home early?"

"I was thinking it might be best if I didn't stay for too long," Matthew answered, sounding rather glum.

"Oh." Mary gathered what she wanted onto her plate, which wasn't very much of anything, and sat down across from him. The table wasn't very wide, and yet she was getting the sense that they were separated by a great distance. "Were you not enjoying yourself?"

"No, I did – it was a very enjoyable holiday. I'm very grateful to your parents for inviting me here." Matthew sighed, his eyes cast downward towards his cup of tea. "Only I've just been getting the feeling that … I've got work at home, and I'm afraid that I'll forget about it if I leave it for too long."

That couldn't have been the real reason, Mary thought, or at least the entire reason. It was as though he were in fact afraid of overstaying his welcome, as if he was a stranger to Downton and the family.

Or was it because of yesterday, she wondered fearfully, of everything that had happened between them?

"Good morning, Matthew," Sybil chirped as she strode into the breakfast room. Matthew nodded a silent response.

No one lingered in the breakfast room for much longer: as soon as Sybil finished off her toast and egg, the car was ready to take them to the station, and hats and coats were gathered and donned. Mary got into the car as quickly as she could – the sooner they were off, the less chance there was of Henry waking up early and wanting to give her a goodbye kiss. She didn't want to see his face at all, or she might indeed feel the urge to retch.

Luckily, they set off for the station without any unwanted people causing delay, and they arrived promptly for the 8:00 train to London. Mary and Sybil sat in the same compartment, but Matthew went into another, leaving the two of them by themselves.

As soon as the train left the platform, Sybil decided to pick up where the conversation she and Mary had been having before Mary fell asleep left off.

"When Henry does go home, what do you suppose you'll do?" she asked Mary.

Mary gave a tired shrug of her shoulders.

Sybil pursed her lips. "I mean, are you going to tell him what you tried to do last night? You said, right before you fell asleep, you didn't know how he'd react if you did."

"And I really don't," Mary said. She shook her head. "Sybil, I don't want to think about any of that right now. I just want to rest."

Sybil nodded. "I understand. But at some point, we should talk about it."

"What for?" Mary said. "How can I know what he'll do if I tell him?"

She didn't even have faith, some small sliver of hope, that Henry would understand what she had gone through, that he'd allow her to leave him. Henry couldn't be so cruel as to keep Mary bound to him after hearing what she had tried to do … but then again, Sybil didn't know him, and evidently Mary didn't think she knew him well enough either. To not know a husband's mind like one's own was an unfamiliar concept to Sybil.

"What if _I_ were to tell him instead?" Sybil offered. "He might understand it better coming from me."

Mary shrugged again. "He might. He can't blame you for being moody or ridiculous because of pregnancy. But even so, I'm still not sure he'd let me go." She leaned back against the cushioned seat. "He likes the life he has with me too much. And he's absolutely head over heels by the fact that he'll be a father. I don't think he'd give all that up just for my sake."

Sybil saw the hopelessness return to Mary's eyes before she closed them, clearly intent on sleeping. "Just let me rest, please. I told you, I don't want to think about it for the rest of the day," Mary murmured.

That was the end of this discussion, Sybil realized. If she pressed the matter further, Mary would only continue to clam up and get more upset. Sybil did not want to give Mary cause to be angry or upset at her, yet they would only have a couple of days before Henry returned home, and Mary's injury wouldn't come close to healing in that time.

She looked at Mary's injured wrist, covered by her gloves and the cuff of her coat. Sybil had gotten her a proper bandage, but the single scar would remain visible for a long time afterwards. Henry was no fool – one day, he would notice that scar, and he wouldn't have any trouble guessing how Mary had gotten it.

"Alright then," Sybil said. "I may go down to the dining car for another cup of tea – unless you think I should stay here with you?"

Mary opened her eyes, looking at Sybil through the slit in her eyelids. "Do you think I'll try again?"

Sybil's stomach lurched. "Don't – don't say that. Don't even think like that," she said sternly.

Mary sniffed. "I won't try anything, believe me. How could I in here, anyway?"

"Even so, I won't leave you alone for more than five minutes," Sybil decided.

Mary's eyes completely closed again. "You do that."

* * *

Matthew looked away from his newspaper to check his watch, and to his dismay he realized the train had only been moving for an hour. The journey felt agonizingly slow, like a whole day had already passed yet the train had gone nowhere. He was alone in the compartment – no one seemed to want to take an early train to London on New Year's Day.

He wanted to get back to London as soon as possible, not because there was any pressing need or engagement he wanted to attend to, but so he could return to normalcy. His days were predictable, his interactions with people were limited to the household staff or his business partners, and he wouldn't be constantly reminded of the past … with the exception of the house that reminded him of Lavinia. It had been hers, after all, of course her memory would linger there.

But he had learned to live with her ghost sitting at the table, lying on the bed next to him. Sometimes he imagined her silhouette standing at the end of the hallway, coming to greet him when he came home from the office. He hated himself for not getting used to an empty room, the silence in the evening – it had been more than a year, and he had never learned to live with the fact that he was living his life alone.

He looked up from his paper again when he heard a tapping on the compartment door, and saw Sybil standing in the corridor. He motioned for her to come in, waiting for her to explain what she was doing here.

"Can I talk with you?" she asked.

Matthew frowned. "What about?"

Sybil took a deep breath. "It's about Mary."

She stepped into the compartment and closed the door behind her. Matthew folded his paper and put it aside as Sybil sat in the seat across from him. "Is she alright?" he asked. "Where is she?"

"She's asleep," Sybil answered. "I don't want to leave her alone for too long, which is why I need to talk to you quickly."

Matthew had an odd feeling about this. Why was Sybil wanting to talk to him about Mary? What possible reason was there … was it something to do with yesterday at the shoot? He couldn't think of anything that might be wrong, aside from the light inside Mary that he could sense had dimmed. Was there a reason behind that that Sybil was going to reveal to him?

"I told everyone last night that I was taking Mary home because she was ill," Sybil began, "but the truth is, she isn't really – not physically, at least. I'm taking her home because …" She seemed to have momentary difficulty forming her words, but Matthew waited patiently for her to collect herself.

"I'm taking her home because last night … last night, after dinner, she tried to kill herself," Sybil said finally.

Matthew felt like a bullet had just struck him in the chest, and his breath stopped in his throat. Sybil's words echoed in his head, over and over again, that horrible truth that he didn't want to believe, even though the way his gut twisted inside him told him it was indeed true.

"Wh – what?" he stammered.

Sybil nodded. "Tom and I found her in time, and she'll be fine, but I needed to take her away from Downton, to give her time to recover before Henry came home."

"But why … why did she do it?" Matthew said in a half-whisper.

Sybil looked down glumly. "She's terribly unhappy. She … she doesn't love Henry anymore, and she feels trapped because he apparently still loves her, and now that she's pregnant … she wants a different life, but she can't see a way out of her marriage to Henry."

"She doesn't love Henry anymore?" Matthew repeated.

Sybil shook her head. "It's difficult to put it into words, but Mary is … it's not just that she doesn't love him like she thought she would – she's not herself when he's around. And she's lost nearly all her will to live."

As best as she could, she explained to Matthew the problems in Mary's marriage and her pregnancy, the ways Henry chinked at Mary's will to live, and with every sentence Matthew's eyes widened and his face paled more and more. To finally hear, after believing all this time that Mary was happy with her life, that she was miserable beyond measure and living without hope that things might get better for her … he felt so sick inside.

"I've tried to think of some way to convince her that she _can_ get out of this marriage, that there is something better out there for her, but I think she's lost all hope," Sybil explained.

"Because … because Henry thinks she still loves her, and because she's pregnant," Matthew said, harking back to what Sybil had just explained.

Sybil nodded. "She doesn't think a divorce is possible because Henry might not allow it. And even after what she tried to do, she still doesn't think he'd let her leave him."

"Wouldn't he, though? If Henry loved her?" Matthew questioned.

"His sense of love isn't really … it's not enough to let her go," Sybil said.

From the way Sybil described it, Matthew could understand why Mary thought her situation was inescapable. Loneliness sounded a much better condition than living in constant fear with someone he thought he knew, the will to live slowly cracking until it shattered completely. He remembered Mary sitting a few compartments away – had Tom and Sybil not found her in time, she wouldn't be there at all. That thought alone could have sent his breakfast back up, and he swallowed hard to stifle the feeling.

"So … if you haven't told anyone else," he said, "why are you telling _me_?"

Sybil leaned forward. "Because I believe that you can convince her to see that she can have another life, and if she believes that, then she will have the will to fight for a divorce."

"Me?" Matthew spluttered. "Why me? How could I—?"

"Because when I see you and Mary together, I can see her come back to life a little bit," Sybil said. "You two are still friends."

Matthew looked at Sybil. "Yes, well—"

"And what's changed?" Sybil asked; that silenced Matthew. "You loved her – a long time ago, yes, but she remembers that. And I think that somehow, when she's around you, she can feel that again."

Matthew really couldn't make head or tail of what Sybil was getting at. "I … I still don't understand – what do you want me to do?"

"Bring her into your life," Sybil answered. "I can't stay with her in London forever, and she needs to know that there is someone who she can trust, who can make her see that she _can_ have another chance at being happy."

"What do you mean, 'bring her into my life?'" Matthew still couldn't understand exactly what Sybil was asking of him, and he was afraid of what she really meant. "Does Mary even know what you're talking about?"

"I haven't said anything to Mary," Sybil confessed. "But I know, if you made it known to her that you care about her, she won't see her life as so hopeless."

Matthew couldn't deny the fact that he did still care about Mary – as Sybil had said, he wanted to think of himself as still her friend. And despite what Mary had said at dinner the night before, how she had implied that their friendship was a thing of the past, Matthew hoped that she didn't really mean it. Still, he couldn't say for sure if she saw him the way he saw her, if she really did believe that any amity they shared was lost to the past.

"Listen, Sybil, even if I did – as you put it, let her back into my life – would she even allow herself to?" Matthew sighed. "She's a married woman, what if she got the wrong idea about … about us being together?"

"Then make it clear that's not what you want," Sybil answered. "Invite her out to dinner one night, or go for a walk in the park with her. She's alone quite often, I'm sure you could arrange something easily."

She stood up before Matthew could come up with another objection. "Please, just think about it. I don't know who else I might turn to or who in London could help her." She slid open the compartment door. "And to be honest, I believe you need her as much as she needs you," she added.

Sybil disappeared down the corridor, her last words echoing in Matthew's head. He was left completely perplexed and shocked, not just from the revelation that Mary had actually attempted to kill herself only last night, but also that Sybil had called upon him to help her. Not that he had been given much example on how to do so.

He truly wanted to help her if she was unhappy – but not only was he unsure how to, he questioned if Mary was willing to have anything to do with him. Would she honestly accept a sudden invitation from him to go for a walk in the park? He couldn't say for certain – with Mary, he couldn't anticipate anything anymore. Standing with her at the shoot yesterday morning, how could he have predicted that she'd try to kill herself hours later? He didn't really know her anymore – she wasn't the same person he remembered. And he wasn't about to do something bloody foolish that would ruin what little interaction they did have.

Matthew picked up his newspaper again, but he couldn't concentrate on anything he was reading. All his anxious thoughts were affixed on Mary, her unbearable unhappiness and loneliness. If Sybil really believed he might do something to help lift Mary's spirits, then who was he to deny her his help? There had to be some small way he could reach out to her, but nothing he thought of seemed good enough in his mind.

When he left the compartment briefly to walk down to the dining car, he passed the compartment which Sybil and Mary occupied. Sybil was engrossed in a medical notebook and didn't raise her head to see him standing in the corridor and looking in. Mary likewise did not see him, as she was sleeping soundly with her head leaning against the window. Matthew stared at her for about a minute, trying to imagine what she must feel every day that she remained married to Henry Talbot. Trapped in an unhappy marriage – being widowed must seem far preferable to her, Matthew wondered.


	11. Chapter 11

_I'm sorry that it's been so long since the last update (I think it was sometime in August), and even though I said I'd be on hiatus for a short time, I didn't plan on it being a six-month hiatus, especially since most of you are enjoying this. I would have updated sooner; however, it has been a rough past six months for me, and during that time I wasn't in the right state of mind to be writing something that's fairly depressing (even though things are going to go up from this point on). So my apologies for the wait, and I'll try to update this a bit more regularly._

 _As always, thank you for reading and sticking with me even though I'm bad at updating, and reviews are always appreciated!_

* * *

Chapter Eleven

Matthew wasn't sure what he was thinking when he had his piece of paper laid out in front of him, his pen hovering above it, having just written at the top, _Dearest Mary._

It was late, and he was sitting at his desk in his study at home when he pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. He didn't know why he thought writing a letter would be a good idea, what it would even amount to. He couldn't tell why he was suddenly seized with the impulse to say something to her, somehow, but he wasn't even sure what he wanted to say. He didn't have the courage to telephone her, and he was sure if he did manage to dial and be connected to her, he would simply stammer and slam the phone back down.

What was he even going to write to Mary; they had only seen each other a fortnight ago, they had caught up on each other's lives then (if that was what either of them could call what they were living through). What else did he have to say to her? If he did decide to write it would be more of a note than a letter: asking how she was doing since she got back, if she would like to meet with him sometime, maybe for lunch or for a walk in the park …

Even in his head it sounded stupid.

What business did he even have asking Mary to lunch, or even to have anything to do with him? Sybil had suggested he do that on the train, but he had the feeling that doing so would be crossing a fine line. Besides, what would Mary think if he did? She wasn't a rule-breaker as Sybil was, she was still married, and she wouldn't deliberately do anything to cause a scandal.

She wouldn't want anything to do with him, he told himself.

Still, he felt that he should do _something_ , even if he had no clue what and every idea he came up with sounded mad in his head. He knew that Sybil was right when she told him he had to help her; he was the closest thing she had to family in London, they trusted each other, she liked him … at least Matthew hoped she still did.

And he worried about her more than he had ever worried about one person, except for perhaps his own mother. However, his mother lived in peace at Downton, whereas Mary was trapped in a marriage that reaped no happiness for her. Sybil had not given him much detail as to Mary and Henry's current relationship (though he suspected that Sybil did not know the full story either) but if Mary had attempted to kill herself over it, it could not be a life with much to live for. Mary did not deserve it – Matthew wanted happiness for her, and had he known the current reality before she was married, he would have stood right up during the wedding and demanded it to stop.

He had been there that day, Mary's back to him so her face unreadable. Had it been hopeful? Satisfied? Unsure even at the eleventh hour? What had changed between her and Henry afterwards? Had her love for him faded? Was it even there at all?

Matthew had asked himself those last two questions when he withdrew his own proposal to her. He had been so sure, so hopeful that she would accept, that he was not prepared for the eventual disappointment. He had walked away from her wondering if he was disillusioned, if he should have expected that it wouldn't come to anything. Until the war arrived to distract him he wondered if she had loved him as he had loved her.

Love was a strange thing, he thought tiredly. It was an invisible thing, disguised as so many things that it was hard to tell when it was real. It made you think strange, fanciful thoughts, made you believe in the most improbable things … and when it disappeared it left you totally unprepared, striking you across the face like a slap as if to say, "How could you be so foolish?"

He had learnt that throughout his marriage to Lavinia; he cared so much for her, wanted her to be happy for him, but somehow he felt that his heart was always somewhere else. And when she had died, yes, he was heartbroken, but he felt more strongly the feeling of emptiness. He felt that her death meant his chance at love was gone forever. He was not so much a heartbroken man as he was an empty one.

The grandfather clock behind chimed eleven; Matthew rubbed his eyes and considered abandoning his blank letter and going to bed. All the thoughts rushing through his brain like rapids were only making him delirious; there was no sense in lingering on them.

But the letter was still blank before him, and as much as he felt he should leave it for now and go upstairs, he didn't want to.

When he touched pen to paper again he still wasn't sure what he wanted to write. After a few minutes of thinking, he started, under the words, _Dearest Mary_ …

 _I was very glad to see you again during the holiday; it had been such a long time since the last time we had met, and I regret not getting in touch earlier to learn how you have been._

 _I was hoping, though I don't have much faith that you'll accept, that you might join me someday this week for luncheon, whenever you would like to. Perhaps to The Rules? I did hear from Edith that you enjoy it there. Although if there was somewhere else you'd like to go I won't mind—_

Matthew stopped for a moment, rereading his words. They sounded too … natural, like he was actually having a conversation with her at this moment. He was about to cross the line out, then decided not to; it would look too messy.

… _I won't mind. But again, you don't have to accept: I know you might have previous engagements that you would want to keep, which I completely understand. Or you simply might not be feeling up to it, which is also alright. Either way, I won't force you to join me. This is more of a suggestion than an invitation, really._

Pausing, Matthew tried to think of how he could assure Mary he wanted only to meet with her as a friend. He didn't think anything so far suggested otherwise, but he wanted to be careful.

 _And I know that I may sound too forward, but I hope you'll believe me when I say that I mean nothing out of line. I only want to meet together as friends, as people who have not seen enough of each other recently. I know we saw each other at Downton only a short while ago, but I feel as though I did not have enough time in your company, which I had been quite looking forward to._

He hesitated before adding, _In fact, it was one of the major reasons why I decided to come after all._

Matthew couldn't believe what he was doing, even as he finished the letter and signed his name at the bottom, folded the paper, and slid it into an envelope. Should he even send it and let Mary read what he had written? He had half a mind to throw the letter into the embers and let it smoulder … and the other half of his mind was telling him he had nothing to lose by actually sending it to Mary.

If she decided that she would indeed like to join him for luncheon, fine, he'd do that with her. But if she read the letter and decided he was overstepping boundaries, resolving not to answer him … well, he was already quite used to not hearing from her. It wouldn't be so different from before.

He looked for her address in his address book; he knew he had written it down a long time ago, when Mary had first gone to live with Henry. He had never used it before, and he was surprised to find that it wasn't a great distance away from his home here – ten or fifteen minutes away by car, probably. If he wanted to, he could drive over there and push it through the mail flap in the door himself …

No, he told himself, that was a ridiculous idea. In the morning he should simply drop it in the mailbox and let it be. There was no sense in making things more complicated. He'd post it and try not to think about it too much—

Matthew jumped up from his seat and took the letter in his hand. Grabbing his coat and hat and thinking just how mad he was to be doing this, he went outside and started up his car.

He knew how to get to the general area where the Talbots lived. It was a nice neighborhood, not quite as sophisticated as Belgrave Square or the street where the Crawleys' London house was, though certainly everyone who lived here had to be well off. The streets were quiet, the gaslamps only faintly lighting the road, and Matthew had to drive slowly to check the numbers on the houses to see which one Mary lived at; he didn't want to risk dropping the letter at the wrong house. When he found the right house he parked his car on the opposite side of the street; he didn't want to stop too close and look suspicious so someone would come out and ask what he was doing.

The Talbots' home was a classic London home, not terribly big, but it certainly had to be spacious inside. Matthew wondered how much Henry made from just racing cars and if that could be enough to own and maintain such a home. It had been his before he married Mary; perhaps he had wealthy relatives who previously owned the house or he had inherited a fortune and bought it himself. Matthew knew there was at least one maid, a butler, and a cook, as well as Mary's lady's maid, so Henry somehow had enough income to pay them all. And he doubted Mary secretly had a paying job – Lord Grantham would have an aneurysm if he found out another of his daughters was working.

The front windows were still glowing with soft lamplight, but as Matthew sat in his car, watching and waiting for the right moment, the lights on the ground floor flickered off. He thought he could see shadows moving on the top floor, but it was hard to see any distinct shapes through the thick curtains. Was that the bedroom, where the Talbots were moving about, getting ready for bed, or the maid tidying up the front room? Whoever it was, Matthew hoped they wouldn't pull back the curtains and peer out onto the street and see him. Once all the lights were off, he'd get out of the car, push the letter through the door, then leave.

What was he even doing here? Hoping to see Mary through the window, just for a second? The shadows moving behind the curtains could be anyone – it was late enough, she could probably be asleep by now. He was stupid for even thinking about doing this. But he was here now, and the letter was still on the seat beside him.

When the last light winked out, Matthew picked up the letter and opened the car door as quietly as he could. He jogged across the street towards the now-dark house, went up the stone stairs, and pushed the letter through the flap in the door. Without hesitating, he turned back, went across the street again, and started up the car before he even closed the door again.

 _Please Mary, don't think of me as a stupid idiot_ , Matthew thought, even though that's exactly what he felt like. Nothing would come out of this. He was only fooling himself.

* * *

Every morning usually, Mary was served her breakfast in bed with the small comfort that she wouldn't be bothered by Henry. This morning, however, she was denied the pleasure of being alone when Henry barged in just as her maid set the breakfast tray down before her.

"We need to talk," he said.

Mary looked up, astonished, and even her maid frowned.

"Alone," Henry added, looking directly at Mary's maid.

The maid muttered a pardon and hurried right out of the room. Mary stared at Henry, the smell of her hot breakfast making her stomach growl. She knew Henry wouldn't let her have one bite of toast or a sip of tea until he was finished. He didn't seem furious (yet) but his brow was slightly furrowed and his jaw was clenched. He was holding an envelope in his hand, which he lifted to show Mary.

"I found this at the door when I came downstairs," Henry explained. "It was here before the actual mail came in."

Mary arched a brow, lifting the cover off the teapot as she feigned indifference. "Am I supposed to know what that is?" She honestly had know idea what the letter was, or who it was from, but Henry seemed to imply that she should.

"You should," Henry answered. He stepped closer to the side of the bed. "It's from one Matthew Crawley."

Mary paused, her eyes resting on the letter Henry was holding up. _Oh God … he's written,_ she thought in shock. _But what for? He's never written to me before._

"Well, I wasn't to know that he'd write," she replied. "This is the first time he's done so."

"Really?" Henry didn't seem convinced. Why was it a habit of his to never believe her when she was telling the honest truth?

"Really," Mary insisted. "It's probably just a note about how nice it was to meet at Downton for the holiday."

"So he's never written to you before?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "I told you, this is the first time he's written to me since he was at the front." She held out her hand. "May I please have my letter, for heaven's sake?"

Henry slapped the envelope into her hand. Mary was about to pick up her butter knife to open it, but the flap was already loose, crudely restuck together in an attempt to hide the fact that it had already been opened. And it was quite clear to Mary who had opened it.

She shouldn't have been so surprised that he would open a letter addressed specifically to her, but it still felt like a blow to the chest that he would actually breach her privacy like this. "Henry, did you open this?" she asked, aghast.

Henry simply shrugged.

Mary's mouth hung open. "Wha – you mean you … did you _read_ this? A letter meant for me?"

"I was just making sure there wasn't anything uncouth in it," Henry said carelessly. "After all, it came before the regular post, so I suspected it wasn't a normal letter. One that someone delivered personally because they didn't want it getting lost with the post."

What in the world was Henry to be suspicious about, particularly with a letter from Matthew Crawley that Mary herself hadn't been anticipating? "First of all, Matthew wouldn't write anything uncouth to me – he's not that sort of man," she insisted. "I know it's probably nothing you should be concerned about—"

"Actually, it's an invitation," Henry said. "To go out to luncheon sometime this week. He wasn't specific about details, and he seemed rather convinced that you wouldn't accept anyway. Honestly, it's a rather pathetic letter, though I suppose he meant it that way so it would seem innocent enough …"

Mary pulled the letter out the envelope. Sure enough, it was a tentative invitation, and from the writing Matthew did seem convinced that she wouldn't have any interest in going out to luncheon with him. It was peculiar of him to make such a request … but right now, her surprise about the letter was overshadowed by her anger that Henry had actually opened and read a letter meant for her – as if he had any real reason to be suspicious of her.

"It's just an invitation to meet for luncheon," she told Henry. "There's nothing else to it. And I'll thank you for not reading my own letters before I do in the future."

Henry scoffed. "Now just listen to me, Mary—"

"What?" Mary snapped. "Are you going to say this is for my own good? Are you so determind to control everything about my life that you breach my privacy in this way? I've never felt the need to go through _your_ letters, so what makes you feel like you—"

"Mary, that's enough, you're becoming hysterical."

"I am _not_ hysterical!" Mary cried, which probably didn't help her case. "I think I'm right in being angry about you going through my letters. It's … it's just wrong."

Henry raised his eyebrows. "Is it? Is it wrong to look out for you, to make sure my wife isn't getting into anything she might regret?"

Mary froze. "Do you think I'm … no! No, I wouldn't ever do that! You're being ridiculous!"

"Am I? Mary, you have been acting awfully strange since you came back from Downton, and I don't know if it's from you being ill or something else." Henry pronounced the word 'ill' as if he didn't quite believe her excuse. "You've barely spoken to me, you keep making excuses to avoid me – frankly, this is the first real conversation we've had since we got back! And you still won't tell me how in God's name you hurt your wrist!"

Mary wrapped her hand around her bandaged wrist. "I told you, I scraped it against the edge of the train door."

When the bandages came off, there would be tell-tale scars, clear signs of how she took Henry's straight razor and slashed herself. Then, if and when he noticed them, Henry was sure to question her lie that she had badly scraped it while trying to wrench open the comparment door while on the ride back to London.

"My point is, I feel that you haven't been entirely honest with me," Henry said. "I feel that you're hiding something from me. And I think it has something to do with Matthew Crawley."

"Oh, not this again!" How could Henry possibly imagine there was something between her and Matthew? Even the invitation to luncheon in the letter wasn't enough evidence – Matthew hardly seemed sure of what he was doing, going by how nervous his own writing sounded. Was Henry inclined to suspect foul play every time she talked to another man?

"I spoke to you about this at Downton, in case you don't remember," Henry reminded her. "If there's something going on between you and him, you'd better tell me now. You tell me if he's making you upset, or if he's coercing you … and I won't be angry if you simply admit there's something going on." His tone softened. "Please, Mary. I've done my best to be there for you in the past."

 _A bloody lot of good your 'best' has done_ , Mary thought. She shook her head. "There is _nothing_ happening between Matthew and me. Why do I have to keep saying it?"

"Because now I'm finding it hard to believe the contrary, particularly when _this_ —," he jabbed his finger towards the letter, "shows up in my house. I told you to be careful, Mary. I will not let this silly matter tear this marriage apart."

This was the same conversation they had had at Downton before Mary broke down, before she decided she couldn't live like this anymore, before she went upstairs with the intention of ending it all. She was having those same feelings now, feelings of despair and ruination, that nothing she said or did would change anything. She felt her low lip quiver, her eyes water, and she covered her face with her hand so Henry wouldn't see her cry.

Henry rested his hand on her shoulder. "Oh darling, I'm sorry if I've upset you. But I'm your husband, and I want what's best for you, and for that you have to be completely honest from me. It's not worth to hide things from me. I hope that you're only being this way because you're expecting – the doctor did say your hormones and such might be off-balance during this time. So you must remember to keep your head and not do anything that you'll regret later. And don't get so hysterical either – it's not good for the baby."

Mary didn't look at him or take her hands away from her face, even as Henry kissed her on the top of her head and said, "Eat your breakfast – you'll make things worse for the baby if you starve yourself."

She heard him leaving the room and closing the door behind him. When she opened her eyes she saw that he had taken Matthew's letter.

She wasn't in control of anything at all – had she known Matthew was going to write to her, she would have waited by the door until it was delivered and hidden it away, where Henry's prying eyes couldn't find it. But how was she to know he would? He hadn't promised he would at Downton, and since he had never done so in the past, she had thought the chances of him ever doing so were nonexistent. And all because of that single, innocently-penned letter, Henry was almost entirely convinced there was something going on between them.

Despite it causing more trouble than Matthew probably wanted it to, Mary took some small comfort in the fact that he had cared enough to write to her, even just a note with a invitation. _So he has forgiven me for what I said,_ Mary thought. _He still sees me as a friend, or at least someone he can invite to luncheon. I haven't pushed him away._

Although she would have liked to accept Matthew's invitation to luncheon, she knew she no longer had the freedom to go one day, even if Henry was out of the house. He would be watching her like a hawk, listening to her phone conversations, perhaps even check the letters she wrote, and when he wasn't there he would be sure the servants would do the same. Until his suspicions wore away, which could be a matter of weeks or months, Mary couldn't give him any reason to believe she and Matthew were together at all.

And yet … she couldn't leave Matthew without an answer, let him think that she had ignored him or never received his message. But how could she do so without Henry thinking she was up to something. To contact Matthew directly would spell trouble for her – for both of them.

Matthew's letter – although she no longer had it in her hands – gave her something that she had thought was lost to her. It was like a light at the end of a dark street, a dim one, but something to look to nonetheless. It was the closest thing she had to a good omen now.


	12. Chapter 12

_First, thank you all for your nice words, I appreciated them so much. I've been feeling a bit better than I was about two months ago, so I'm hoping that I won't need to take another hiatus. I know you're all anxious to see things turn out better for both Mary and Matthew (so am I, I just have to write it!). Second, I know it's another short chapter, but future updates should be a bit longer._

 _Thank you all for your nice reviews, and thank you for reading!_

* * *

Chapter Twelve

 _Darling Sybil,_

 _I know what I'm asking of you may sound silly, but I can't think of any other way around the predicament I'm in. You might have accidentally pulled out a letter that is addressed to cousin Matthew, but it's not in there by accident. I need you to send it to him yourself._

 _I'm afraid Henry suspects there is something going on between the two of us, and he's felt this way ever since we stood together during the shoot. This morning, Matthew sent a letter (which I did not anticipate) which Henry got hold of and read before I did, although I was able to read it afterwards. Matthew was only asking me out to luncheon sometime this week, and although I've tried to assure Henry that it was only a simple invitation for luncheon amongst friends, he has taken it to be something more. You and everybody else certainly know that there really is nothing between Matthew and myself, but Henry is hard to dissuade. I want to write Matthew back, but I think Henry may be keeping a close eye on any letters addressed to me. Not only that, but he practically cornered me in the corridor yesterday when I was going to put the letter I wrote to Granny in the post box, and I'm certain he'll go through the box even when I'm not there._

 _But I'm sure he won't pay much attention to anything_ you _send. If you can, I need you to send the letter I wrote to Matthew to him. I don't want to risk Henry finding and reading it before it can be sent. I put some stamps in the envelope in case you need some. Please Sybil, I need you to send this as soon as you possibly can – I don't want to leave Matthew without an answer for much longer. It was kind of him to write to me, and I want to return the favour._

 _Your loving sister, Mary_

Sybil held the two letters in her hands, the one written to her that she had just read on top of the other written to Matthew from Mary. She had been rather confused why she had pulled a letter that was meant for Matthew out of the envelope, until she saw the second letter tucked inside.

Mary was clever to send her letter to Matthew on to her, Sybil thought, and if Henry really was going through her letters, then he had obviously allowed this one to pass. Sybil was appalled that Henry was going though Mary's letters, with the erroneous assumption that something was going on between Mary and Matthew behind his back.

Henry had been so convinced that his wife was in love with him, but now he was apparently suspicious of Matthew Crawley. How could he even suspect such a thing? The only time Mary and Matthew had been alone together (or relatively alone) was at the shoot, and every other time Henry watched Mary like a hawk, looming over her and barely giving her enough space to breathe. It was irrational for Henry to think that his wife was, at worse, cheating, especially with someone she had hardly spend any time with.

Sybil sat down at the kitchen table and rubbed her eyes. She didn't want to think that she might be partially responsible for this – after all, it was her idea to have Mary and Matthew stand together during the shoot. It wasn't her fault that Henry, so concerned about keeping a tight fist around his wife's freedom, had jumped to such outrageous conclusions and was thus acting more like a gaoler than a husband. But if Mary and Matthew hadn't spent even one minute together, perhaps Henry would have left her and her mail alone.

Henry didn't fear losing Mary's love to another man – he feared losing his control over her. Love had nothing to do with it, despite him using that excuse.

The tea kettle whistled just as Tom came rushing down the stairs, buttoning his shirt with one hand and carrying his shoes in the other. He had still been asleep when Sybil got out of bed; he had been up past midnight writing a last-minute piece for his paper. Sybil had let him sleep for just a few more minutes – she hated how he was starting to get shadows under his eyes. She was fine looking exhausted herself, she didn't have a choice in having long shifts, but Tom was recently getting into the habit of overworking himself.

"I can't believe I slept in," he muttered to himself. "I'm going to have to go right now if I'm going to get this article into them in time. Did the post come yet?" he asked.

"Yes, but there was just a letter from Mary," Sybil said. "Have you got any envelopes or stamps?"

"They're on the desk," Tom answered, finishing the buttons on his shirt and hastily pulling on his shoes.

Sybil nodded. "Thank you, dear."

She got an envelope from Tom's desk and quickly wrote Matthew's address on it, sticking a stamp on the corner. "There. If you're going to dash out first, can you put that in the box?"

"I can do that," Tom offered. "I need to go now, I overslept enough."

He took the letter and glanced at the address on the envelope. "Are you writing to Matthew now?" He asked with curiosity.

"Actually, it's not my letter that's in there. Mary needs me to send the letter she wrote to Matthew," Sybil explained. "She put it in with the one she wrote to me."

"Why did she do that?" Tom asked, but clearly he had quickly guessed the answer by the way his bemused face dropped. "Henry's not going through her mail, is he?"

"That's exactly why. He already took a letter Matthew wrote to Mary which asked her out to luncheon. She doesn't want to risk Henry catching her writing to Matthew now."

"Jesus, that bastard!" Tom swore, aggressively tying his shoelaces into a knot. "What right does he think he has to do that?"

"He's her husband, I think that's enough reason for him," Sybil muttered. "He's only just started doing it because he's afraid Mary's cheating."

Tom scoffed. "With Matthew? What, they stand together for one drive during the shoot and Henry thinks that they start a relationship?"

Sybil sighed. "I know, I know it sounds preposterous, but right now I just need you to send that letter as soon as you can."

"Well, I'm going out right now, so I'll send it."

"Are you honestly going to go without any breakfast?" Sybil would have gladly rushed back through to the kitchen to get him a bit of toast or a small cup of tea, but Tom refused her with a wave. "No, I'm late enough as it is. I don't want to get in trouble by being behind."

"You deserved a bit of a lie in, you were up so late last night," Sybil said. "At least have a cup of tea before you go."

Tom, who had already picked his coat from the hook by the door, kissed Sybil's cheek. "I'm sorry, love. I promise I'll put that letter in the first mailbox I come to."

"Thank you. And can you do just one more favour for me, please?"

"What is it?"

"If you're near the library, by any chance, could you pick up a book on English divorce law?"

* * *

The week was at an end, and Matthew had given up any hope that Mary would write back to him.

He hadn't expected she'd write back accepting his half-hearted invitation to luncheon – or rather, he knew better than to hope for such an outcome. He still looked through the post every day, wondering if one of the envelopes would be addressed to him in her own hand. He knew her handwriting well from the letters she had sent him while he was at the front. Her handwriting was as elegant as she was, each letter slender and curling gracefully. But none of the letters he received had the sort of handwriting that a lady would be expected to produce.

And by the end of the week, without any telephone call or note from Mary, Matthew was quite convinced she was willfully ignoring him. Of course, he knew he was overstepping boundaries, asking a married woman out to luncheon. He should have realized that, as the wife of a prolific automobile racer, Mary wasn't invisible in public – she knew people and people knew her, and questions would be raised if they saw her with someone who was obviously not the tall, dark-haired racer with a charm the papers loved.

Still, he had waited, thinking that he was certainly getting his hopes up. He had only made a fool of himself by writing that letter to her, and any good opinion Mary had had of him before was now probably gone.

 _But_ , he had to tell himself over and over again, _at least you tried. At least you tried to reach out to her._ He was not to blame if Mary did not take his hand.

And though he was embarrassed of the letter, Matthew wondered if he should do something more – call her, visit her at home, just to see that things were alright. He hadn't forgotten that Mary had tried to end her own life while at Downton, and he knew that the state of mind to do that didn't disappear in the blink of an eye. Henry wouldn't be much help in comforting her, he knew.

He couldn't stop thinking about Mary, even when he believed she never gave a thought to him.

When the post came after the weekend, there was only one letter delivered to his home. He only vaguely recognized the handwriting on the envelope – was it a family member's writing? He cut the envelope with his letter opener and pulled out the letter inside.

He was perplexed, and rather astonished, that the letter was written in Mary's beautiful hand. The writing on the envelope was much less elegant and careful, closer to the writing of a person who was used to scribbling quick notes in shorthand. But the letter was most certainly written by Mary – he didn't even have to read the name at the bottom of the page to know it was her. It was dated the day after he had delivered the letter to her home.

 _Dearest Matthew,_

 _I know that it may be a long while before you receive this, and I'm so very sorry that I've had to keep you waiting without an answer. Things are rather complicated now, and I had to send this first to Sybil so she could send it on to you. I know it must sound rather silly to not send the letter directly to you, but it was the only way that I could ensure you would get it._

Matthew had hoped she would explain why she had sent the letter to Dublin first, but she gave no explanation. It was a little odd to think that, in order to make sure he would get this letter, she had to send it to someone else first. Although now the different handwriting on the envelope made sense – that was Sybil's, and since she had studied to become a nurse during the war, her handwriting had become a bit messy from jotting down notes in shorthand.

 _I would have liked it very much to join you for luncheon, and I would have called to set a day. However, as of late my husband has been rather concerned about who I am with – I suppose it has to do with the baby, and he would prefer it if either I were at home or with him, in case something were to happen. He says he is only looking out for me, as I am sure any husband would do for his pregnant wife._

Matthew had the sense that she was lying through her teeth. She still had many months to go, and she was hardly showing while at Downton. Was it normal for a husband to treat his wife like a china doll while she was pregnant? He himself had been concerned about Lavinia while she had been pregnant, but that concern didn't extend to policing who she saw. He wouldn't have cared if Lavinia had wanted to go out with a man, just the two of them; he trusted Lavinia, and he knew who her friends were.

Still, he understood Henry's hesitation to allow Mary to have luncheon with another man, alone. Henry liked having her in his sight.

The writing differed on the next paragraph. It was still Mary's handwriting, but the pen must have been different – the letters were thinner, as if the pen was barely touching the paper. Or perhaps it was the same pen, but it was Mary who had changed. The words on the page seemed more … uncertain.

 _The truth is, my life is not as rosy as it ought to be. I've felt troubled as of late, and awfully lonely. I can't say I have a lot of friends, even though I know many people here in London. The only person I can truly confide in is Sybil, but as you can imagine I can't simply ask her over for tea on any afternoon, and it's difficult to put some things in words in a letter. Telephoning her is difficult as it seems she is almost always working at the hospital. And to be rather frank, I've been feeling less and less that I am able to speak openly to Henry. I know I told you during the shoot that I was quite happy with him, but I'm afraid I was not being truthful. The thing is, I've been rather unhappy—_

The sentence ended suddenly, the paper dotted with small blotches that Matthew feared were tears. Had she been trying to hold back tears as she tried to hide what was really happening? Even if Matthew hadn't known of her situation, he would still be sure that nothing was alright from the way the sentence ended so abruptly, as if she couldn't go on with her lie. The tear stains, blackened with ink, told him everything he needed to know.

Mary only let her emotions get the better of her when she had lost all strength to hold them back. She always assured everyone that things were alright, just as she had when Matthew inquired about her life. It was always easier for her and for everyone else to believe that, he supposed.

He did recall once, years before the war, when he had asked whether her life was proving satisfactory. She was unmarried, not engaged to anyone, and without any occupation to keep herself busy. She admitted her life 'made her angry.' That had been nearly ten years ago, Matthew remembered, and both of their lives had changed irrevocably since then. But was a life that made you angry better than a life that made you miserable?

The handwriting was a bit shakier when it resumed a bit below the last unfinished sentence. The curls were now straight-edged, the ink lines thicker, and Mary must have been pressing the pen hard as she wrote as there were now indents in the paper. And there were still more tear stains that sometimes made it hard for Matthew to make out the words.

 _Oh Matthew, do forgive me. I don't know how I could say this and help you understand. My life is more wretched than I could have anticipated. I don't know what I was thinking when I married Henry. He's made my life an absolute hell, one I cannot escape from. Now I'm pregnant with his child, a child I do not want. I've hurt myself trying to be rid of it, trying to be rid of this horrible existence as his wife. I regret marrying him, and I regret believing I was ever in love with him. It was nothing more than a silly crush, a childish attraction to a handsome man. I thought our romance was something that would last, but I was so very blind. I have to pretend to still love Henry, even though I only want to run as far away from him as possible. But I feel I can't go on like this much longer. Every day I feel myself being bound tighter to this life I don't want, and when I finally have his child I know it'll be the end. I lost my chance so long ago, I don't know where to go, or who would understand._

Matthew wished she were sitting in front of him here, so that he could reach out and take her hand. He wanted to say, so that she may hear him, "I know, I understand, and I want to help you." He could feel tears forming in his own eyes; Mary's despair was palpable.

 _When you wrote to me, even though Henry took your letter away from me, it felt like a light in the darkness. I was indeed very glad for it, and again I wish I could have accepted your invitation, only Henry forbade me, and I fear he sees your friendship with me as a threat. I've tried to explain to him, you are only a good friend to me, but it is hard to sway his mind._

 _I had missed you so much, and I wish we had had more time together during the Christmas holiday. I know I said some things then that I'm afraid are unforgivable, but believe me when I say I never meant a single word. Henry was cruel in asking you such things. I only responded in the way I did to avoid a row in front of everyone. I wish I weren't so afraid of him, so that I could say what I truly think, but I simply can't. Oh Matthew, I am so ashamed of letting myself be afraid of him. It is a strange feeling to want to fight back, but I'm afraid of what he might do to me. He has already made life a hell by acting like he loves me. I can't leave him, and I can't fight him._

Matthew was filled with anger as much as he was filled with despair for Mary. He would strangle Henry the next time he saw him. A man who struck fear into his wife's heart was no husband at all. Mary was one of the most strong-willed women Matthew had ever known, and no one had ever cowed her before. What did Henry say to her behind closed doors, in the privacy of their home, which no one could see? What did he do to lose Mary's love, lost her trust, leave her living a life she called hell? Matthew's hands were shaking with rage: it didn't matter what Henry intended, he deserved to have a fist rammed into his jaw.

The writing had reverted back to a careful cursive, as if Mary was calm again. He could almost hear her apologetic voice inside his head.

 _I'm so sorry for sounding so gloomy. I didn't expect to write all that at first, it just came out in a burst, like I had to tell you or I'd regret it. Please don't take me a fool for saying this all of a sudden. I only wanted to explain why I couldn't give you an answer._

 _If you want to get in touch, writing a letter would be best. Telephoning me is too risky since Henry's at home often. Even so, I'm not sure if writing directly to me is best, since Henry will surely be keeping a close eye on any mail that comes in. If you did what I did, sending anything to the Bransons first and then have them send it to me, that may fool Henry. I know it sounds a rather silly and complicated method, but I don't want Henry to take away any more of your letters._

 _Your affectionate cousin, Mary._

Matthew set the letter aside, but he didn't get up from his desk or move for a long time. He sat still, eyes unfocused, Mary's voice echoing in his head as if she were calling for him from somewhere in the house. Even if she never asked him, "Help me," in the letter, he could hear the urgency, the fear, the hopelessness in her words. Perhaps it was his previous knowledge of Henry's manipulation, their marriage that was no better than a sham, her attempt to kill herself, that helped him to read between the lines. Despite Mary saying that there was no way out, she was still silently begging for help.

Helping her wouldn't be a straightforward task, but Matthew had decided he wouldn't turn his back on her.

She _was_ like a china doll: always locked away in a glass cabinet, the key kept in the pocket of her owner, a priceless treasure devoid of the ability to do what she wanted. Henry was the owner with the key tucked in his pocket, and he wasn't going to let his treasure go free.


	13. Chapter 13

_I feel that, again, I have a lot of explaining to do about me not updating this fic for a while. Unfortunately the reasons I'm giving for my unplanned second hiatus might not be ones that assure you I won't leave this for months again. I have clinical depression, chronic social anxiety, and possible adult attention deficit disorder. All these things together have made it difficult to function in day to day life. Among other symptoms, it leaves me without the motivation to do things I enjoy, which includes writing._

 _I was in the second semester of my second year at university when I last updated this fic. Now, I said in the last chapter that I was feeling far better and would be better at updating. However, I was mistaken about my mental health: in March I was feeling incredibly down and didn't have a lot of energy or motivation. Academic pressure was a real issue, although not the only reason I was not updating. Even in May when I was home I was still not doing well, mentally or physically. So for the past few months I've been on antidepressants and I've been seeing a therapist._

 _Now, even though this fic has some very upsetting content, it is not the root of my depression. I am still perfectly fine writing it. The issue is more of 'do I feel like writing?' to which the answer may vary. Believe me, I truly want to deliver the rest of this story to you, and I will strive to the best of my ability to finish it without compromising quality. I just ask you to understand that I have a legitimate illness that is very inhibiting and hinders my ability to function._

 _With that said, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you for reading._

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

 _February 15, 1922_

 _Dear Cousin Mary,_

 _In your last letter, you wrote that you were sorry for expressing all that was troubling you, and you asked me not to think of you as a fool. I do not think, nor have I ever thought, you to be a foolish person; on the contrary, I know you to be a very brave woman to write what is in your heart, especially to someone like me. By that I mean, well, given our past … I realize it must be hard you put your trust in me, but I promise you it is not misguided._

 _When I read your letter, it was like you were there in front of me, speaking to me about all the horrible things that are happening to you. I didn't doubt a single word you wrote, and I won't accuse you of exaggerating your situation. I believe you wholeheartedly, and as soon as I finished reading your letter I wanted to rush out and find you, because I can't bear to think of you being unhappy for a moment longer. You don't deserve it, and no man has the right to treat you, or any woman, in the way that Henry has treated you._

 _In whatever way I can, I will help you. I won't do anything you don't want me to do, but I will do all that I can, whatever you ask me. And you are always welcome at my house, at any hour of the day, even in the middle of the night. Just tell me what you need, if it's a place to stay or someone to talk to._

 _I understand what Henry has been doing with your letters, and so I hope you have been able to read through this privately. If he is only looking at the address on the envelope and not at the actual letter, I think it may still be safe to correspond. I don't know if telephoning will be any safer, but just let me know if you receive this letter, or send another note. I imagine your sister will be getting quite a bit of mail if we continue this._

 _Your loving cousin, Matthew_

As soon as she had gotten the letter, the one with the Bransons' home as the return address, Mary hurried up the stairs and shut her bedroom door. She hastily tore through the envelope and read the letter twice in a matter of minutes. She didn't know whether or not to laugh with ecstasy or cry with relief at holding Matthew's letter in her hands without Henry having laid eyes on it first. He had been fooled by the return address and the Dublin stamp.

She could hear Matthew's voice as she read his written words, his softness and his sincerity, his genuine concern and selfless kindness … there were too few men like Matthew in the world, at least that she knew of. Too many of her suitors were only interested in her position, considering her a prize as Henry did, or they held qualities she did not appreciate. But Matthew … oh darling Matthew, he was a good man and she knew she didn't deserve him, but she was glad all the same for his friendship. How selfless he was to help her at whatever cost, and how brave he was to try and get past Henry!

Mary knew, of course, that it would be disastrous should she leave the letter in the open, so she opened a drawer in her vanity and unlatched a secret compartment. The only thing in there was a long string of pearls with a diamond tassel at the end, Henry's gift to her for the most recent Valentine's Day. She had put it in there to try and forget about it, but now she removed the necklace and instead put the letter in there. Henry did not know of the secret compartment, and the letter would be safe there.

A knock on the door sent Mary into a rush to conceal the hidden compartment, no matter if it was Henry or her maid. It turned out to be Henry, just her luck. Mary whirled around and stood with her back to the vanity, pushing the drawer shut at the last moment.

"I just wanted to check up on you," Henry said as he opened the door. "I heard you rush up the stairs and thought you might be sick."

"I did feel somewhat queasy a moment ago," Mary fibbed. "I was going to look for the medicine Dr Ryder gave me. But I can't find it."

"It's in the medicine cabinet in your bathroom, where it's always been," Henry told her.

"Yes, of course," Mary said with an uneasy laugh. "I just thought … I was under the impression I might have put it somewhere else."

Henry nodded. "Are you feeling well enough to go to the Beatons' tonight? I know Mrs Beaton's looking forward to hearing your plans for when the baby comes, and I'll be very disappointed if you have to refuse."

"No, I'm – I'm sure I'll be alright if I lie down for a little bit," Mary replied.

"Good," Henry nodded, satisfied. "Is that the necklace you'd like to wear tonight."

Mary realized she was still holding the string of pearls in her hand. "Yes, actually. I thought it might be good to wear it out, show it off."

"Quite right," Henry said. "You ought to show it off, I paid a good sum for it."

He turned around, hand on the door handle. "I leave you to rest, but you'll need to change in an hour or so, so don't get too comfortable."

"Of course Henry," Mary said. "I won't forget, I promise."

Henry shut the door behind him, and Mary set the pearls down on her vanity. If she only had an hour or so until Henry reappeared, she had to be quick. So she took out the few spare writing materials she had in another vanity drawer, a blank leaf of paper and a pen.

 _February 28, 1922_

 _Dearest Matthew,_

 _I did get your letter without any trouble; Henry saw through this ruse, so I hope he will not be suspicious about all my letters to and from the Bransons in the future. Sometimes it seems as though he will corner me on the smallest things, such like if I'm not dressed as he likes for dinner or am too quiet with him when he is home. For now, though, it appears our correspondance will go unnoticed. I do hope it lasts._

 _Truth be told, I don't quite know what can be done. If Henry were to disappear from existence it would be a miracle, but I doubt that shall happen. What I wish would happen is that he'd understand this feeling I have, and he'd let me go without delay, but again that is too much to ask for; he is not the kind of man who would try and understand me, as you, darling Matthew, are doing. Henry wants me to be the wife he wants, not the woman I am. Any mention of divorce and … I can't even think of what he'd do to me if I even let slip the word or suggested it. He'd never take a word I said seriously ever again._

 _That's always been the trouble with Henry, I think. Even before we were married, Henry always had to have the last word on things. Always going where he wanted to go for an evening out, dragging me along to the car races even though I told him outright I disliked them. Of course, he said I'd grow to like them, and I'd get used to the noise and dust, and he needed me there to support him. I can remember when we were planning the wedding and the honeymoon to Italy, and Henry never let anyone else make a decision without him. He wanted to be the one to approve my wedding dress! I was honestly so bewildered to him doing that, and especially cross as he rejected a dress I was partial to, but I didn't think much about it afterwards. I didn't want to confront him on such a matter before we were married. But it's not normal for a husband to decide his bride's wedding dress, is it?_ You _certainly did not do that with Lavinia._

 _Goodness, I did not realize I was rambling. All my thoughts are just tumbling out so quickly! I'm sorry for the sloppy handwriting, I must have been writing all that rather fast._

 _And it is almost freeing to finally express all the frustration, the anger, all the rage I feel towards Henry. It's been building up for years, and although I've written similar things to Sybil, it feels different when writing to you. I know you do not mind my getting emotional, and I thank you for being understanding about it._ _Few men are like you, Matthew. I think that, if I were to say the things I've admitted to another person, they'd call me hysterical. If I had been born thirty years earlier, I know I'd be one of those 'female hysteria' patients and have to be treated by … whatever they called it,_ _hysterical paroxysm or something like that (I read about it in a ladies' journal some time ago). Even in the twentieth century, it does feel as though a woman's true voice is seldom heard. We're still not allowed to be emotional in public, never allowed to be angry or overly unhappy. I must smile and be in love with Henry whenever I'm out with him. Having to hold all my anger in all the time makes me … numb? I suppose that's the best way to describe it. A neverending feeling of numbness. How does one stop feeling numb?_

 _Again, I apologise for writing in such a rush; I hope you'll be able to read it. If I can, I'll take a cab and deliver it to your house or office (the chauffeur is likely to tell Henry about where he stops). But getting out of the house on my own is hard; Henry believes it isn't healthy for me to leave the house by myself. I doubt his concern is for my pregnancy._

 _Your affectionate cousin, Mary._

When she was finished with the letter, she stashed it the secret compartment beside Matthew's letter. She wasn't at all certain when the opportunity to mail it would come, but she hoped it would be soon. She was desperate to read another of Matthew's letters, hear his voice in her head as she read his words.

It was like Matthew was reaching his hand out to her as she was drowning in a sea of her sorrows, struggling to pull her to the surface even as Henry dragged her down. She _needed_ him to survive, to live, to get through the months growing more painful, to bear the child growing within her. She had never needed anybody in her life quite like the way she needed Matthew now.

And perhaps, he needed her in the same way she needed him.

* * *

 _March 3, 1922_

 _Dear Mary,_

 _I admit I was surprised to see a letter from you at my office; I guess it means you were able to get there without Henry realizing. I doubt I'll be able to do the same, so this one may take more time if I send it to the Bransons first … though none of that matters if you get this letter anyhow._

 _I was indeed able to read every word of your letter; solicitors are quite used to messy handwriting, and mine is far from being as pristine as yours. When you wrote to me during the war, your letters looked like a painting to me, when most days I couldn't see anything besides mud and smoke. Those letters were truly a treasure to me, all three of them, and I kept them in the shelter for as long as I could. I'm sorry to say they were lost when the trench was destroyed._

 _When I opened your last letter, it felt a little like when I'd read your letters at the front. Reading your letters was like hearing your voice amidst all the explosions and gunfire; they were like a light in a dark place. And although you did not write often, I looked forward to the next one – there wasn't much to look forward to at the front besides going back to England, so wanting to read your next letter was a small something to keep me going through those endless days and nights. Hearing from you again just a short while ago brought me back to that feeling; since Lavinia's death, my life has been so empty. I've hardly done anything besides go to work and return home, day in and day out. Being at Downton was really the first holiday I had had in a long time._

 _Until I learned the truth about your life, I thought you had it all, everything I didn't. You had a husband, a home, a child on the way … I thought you had love in your life, and until I saw you at Downton, I believed you_ were _happy. I was convinced that your life was perfect, just as everyone else was, and I was the only one left in the dark. When you're living a dismal life it seems like you are the only person in the world who is suffering. Then I saw you, and I realized my life is far from the worst. You're living a life where love is a complete lie, where the man who was supposed to care for you is hurting you in the most horrible ways. I am only living a dull, empty one, and whatever sorrow I feel is nothing compared to what you must be feeling._

 _I'm sorry, I feel like I'm casting a pall over this. You don't need more gloom in your life. I'm supposed to be helping you, not trot out what you already know. You've spent too much time in this sad state already._

 _If there was some way we could meet, perhaps randomly come across each other someplace, could we? I know if you were with Henry there's not much chance we could have a real conversation, but if we could only see each other … I just want to see you again. We parted during a rough time, and I simply want to see you to make sure you're alright. You know Henry best, you know what he's like, so you'll have to decide what to do._

 _Much love, Matthew_

* * *

 _March 12, 1922_

 _Darling Matthew,_

 _We both have so much missing from our lives, you mustn't tell yourself your life is not worth trying to make better. No one should be alone, especially not you. You've been through enough horrible times in your life, and I mean not just the war, but losing Lavinia as well. Stop being so hard on yourself; you don't deserve to suffer either._

 _I'm not sure if I could manage a chance meeting with you, with or without Henry. It feels harder to go anywhere outside the house without Henry, and when I'm with him it is he who decides where to go and what to do. I was at a luncheon two days ago with some of the ladies I know through the Automobile club, to celebrate the pregnancy, and that was the only time I wasn't under Henry's eye. Of course I can't tell any of_ those _women what I'm feeling, I don't know if they'd understand. They all think Henry is an absolute dream, and they're always telling me how lucky I am to have snatched him, and if I have a son that he'll be just like him – ugh, it's a wretched thought! I'm honestly starting to wonder if the baby_ will _be a boy, and resembling Henry too! Everyone tells me how lucky I am, that I have the best man in the world and more money than any other racer … I'd give every penny I have for another life._

 _There are times when I wonder_ if _Henry really isn't as bad as I see him, if I should indeed consider myself lucky to have married him. I have a comfortable home, I'm not worrying about money half as much as other upper class women are … it's what Henry tells me anyway. And there are so many days when I wonder if it's all just in my head, if the pregnancy is making me disoriented, if Henry really isn't so bad—_

 _I'm so confused, Matthew. Sometimes it's like I don't know what's real, if this is all in my head. When Henry speaks to me, it's like his words are boring into my brain and making me doubt_ everything. _Am I really feeling as hopeless and lost as I think I am? God, there's even something telling me that you're lying, that you're only agreeing with what I've told you because you don't want to upset me …_

 _I know you aren't playing with me, Matthew, I'm so sorry I wrote that._

 _Yet there's still a part of me that's telling me I_ am _right, that this isn't just my mind playing games with me – Henry really is as cruel as I know he is. I have so many conflicting thoughts, and with Henry sometimes I forget to listen to my own heart._

 _I don't know any way you can directly help me, Matthew. I know you want to, but when I asked Sybil for help not even she knew a way which was sure to solve even one problem, and she is the most resourceful woman I know. Unless Henry were to drop dead suddenly and the pregnancy magically disappeared, there's no solution to my awful life._

 _I'm sorry, Matthew. I've expected to much, and I should have known better. I'm grateful for your offer of help, but I know I have to accept that there's nothing I can do, not at this point._

 _All the best, Mary_

* * *

 _March 20, 1922_

 _Mary, don't you dare go thinking again that you can't change your life. You thought that before and you tried to take your own life, and I will_ not _let you come close to that again. We_ will _find a way, some small way, even if it takes weeks or months or years. Even if I have to come marching through your front door and throttle Henry and make him release you._

 _I'm afraid for you, Mary. You're circling back to the same mindset that nearly killed you. I'm afraid you will hurt yourself again, and with you convincing yourself that things are utterly hopeless … Mary, you have to tell yourself that you will survive, that this will all end. In the war, there were nights when I wondered if the fighting would ever end, if it was worth trying to stay alive when good men were dying righ next to you. It took longer than it should have, but it did finally end, and I am alive (thanks in part to your care when I was injured). Your own war will end too, but it won't with you giving up. I won't give up on you, Mary, and you must not give up on yourself. You must not lose hope._

 _I want to hear your voice again. I want to see your face again. You can't know just how much you mean to me. To finally be able to connect with you after so long … it's brought me some small sliver of happiness, some hope to me that my life won't always be as empty as it has been. I want you to feel that as well._

 _Love, Matthew_

 _P.S. I am perfectly willing to give Henry a piece of my mind if that's what you want._

Matthew realized his hands were shaking when he finally put his pen down. He hadn't noticed how quickly he had been writing, the words on the paper clearly put down by an agitated hand. The letter was still readable, though only just. He read it over again, just to make sure he hadn't written anything he'd regret later.

For a moment, he wondered if he should just toss it in the wastebasket and start another one.

Mary's letter was still lying on the desk; he had begun writing his own right after he finished reading hers. Reeling and panicked from reading her hopeless words had spurred him to write as though he were responding to her directly. He'd torn the paper while writing the first sentence, and there were a couple of ink splotches on other parts. It was a messy, unprofessional letter.

Still, he folded up the letter and slid it into an envelope. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the last few minutes to midnight. He'd have to wait until the morning to send it. He wasn't about to do what he'd done before, going to Mary's house and pushing it through the slot before the rest of the post. He'd gotten Mary into trouble for that, and he didn't want her to get into any more.

He wanted to phone her, just to hear her voice, ask if she was alright. It might be possible, if Henry wasn't overseeing the calls she made or took. If Matthew gave a false name – Henry wouldn't know his voice too well – maybe he could avoid suspicion and finally be able to talk to Mary. Just for a little bit, but long enough to know that she was alright. That she was not as hopeless as she had expressed in her letter.

Matthew hated this: only communicating in letters that took time to reach them, not knowing what the other was feeling until it was long past. He wanted to see her face, look into her eyes, hold her when she felt downcast. She didn't deserve to be alone in her own home with a husband who treated her no better than a trophy. She needed support and understanding just as much as she needed food and air – without much of it and soon, she would fail.

He went to bed with his thoughts swirling in his head like a stormy sea. A good night's sleep was once in a blue moon since Lavinia died. He remembered he had hardly slept in the weeks after she died, unable to get the sight of her bloodless face and lifeless eyes out of his head. He had only just gotten used to sleeping in a bed with somebody else, and then he had to learn to be lonely again.

He thought of Mary lying in bed right now, next to someone she needed to get away from. Could she not sleep either? Was she also lying with her face half-buried in the pillow, feeling hot tears spilling from the corner of her eye? Matthew rubbed his own face with the back of his hand.

At some odd hour he must have gotten to sleep, as he woke when the first light streamed in through the curtains. As soon as he was dressed he went to the telephone by the front door, still only half-certain this was a good idea.

"Operator? … yes, er – Talbot residence. Address is … oh, I see." He waited until he heard the connection go through, then waited a bit more until he heard someone pick up.

"Talbot Residence, who is speaking?" It was the butler.

"Good morning, this is, um … Evelyn Napier," Matthew answered. "If Lady Mary is available I'd like to, um … I like to speak with her."

"One moment please, Mr Napier."

Matthew heard silence for a few seconds, then the earpiece being handled again.

"Mr Napier?" Mary sounded surprised.

"Mary … it's me," Matthew said softly. "Don't – don't say anything yet," he added quickly, hoping she wouldn't blurt out his name accidentally. "Is Henry home?"

"Yes." Her voice was somewhat hushed. "We were just having breakfast."

"Can he hear you?"

A short pause. "Yes."

"I just wanted to—" Matthew rubbed his face, hoping the words would come to him easy. "I got your letter yesterday, and I wanted to – are you alright, Mary?"

Another short pause. "Yes, I'm fine. I was just … I wasn't doing well that day."

Matthew wasn't completely convinced, though her hesitation might be from her not wanting to alert Henry. Still, he asked. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"No, I didn't." In a lower voice, she added, "I promise I didn't. But I did think about it."

"As long as you didn't do it in the end, I think that's good. Did you – have you been sleeping well?"

"As well as can be expected," Mary muttered, sounding like her normal dry-humoured self. "Can't tell if I'm beginning to show or if I'm just putting on weight."

"I take it you're eating then?"

"I am," Mary sighed. "But there are times when I don't feel hungry at all, or I lose my appetite in the middle of eating. But I'd say I'm eating enough."

"Good."

"You're not studying to become a doctor, are you?" Mary added with a hint of teasing. Matthew chuckled lightly. "No, I'm not. I just … wanted to make sure you're taking care of yourself."

"I'm trying, Ma – Mr Napier," Mary corrected. "Every day feels … sometimes the hardest thing I do is get out of bed."

"I know," Matthew said. "It's the same way with me."

There was silence on both ends, and neither knew what to say next. Matthew could imagine Henry lingering in the doorway, watching Mary by the telephone, waiting for something to give him incentive to humiliate her.

"If there's some other time you want to talk later … or maybe meet?" Matthew said, almost whispering into the mouthpiece. With Henry within earshot, he had to be careful, and yet—

"Not today; I won't be home until tonight," Mary explained. "Henry wants me to watch him test a car. As for tomorrow, I don't know. I'm sorry"

"That's – it's fine, I wasn't expecting you to—" Matthew stammered.

"But I'm glad you called. Truly, I am. It's been such a long time since I heard your voice."

Matthew could hear her voice cracking in his ear. He was afraid that, if he said anything more, his own would break. Why was it so hard suddenly to speak to her, when he had felt himself doing so in his letters to her? All the things he wished to say to her, to whisper to her, were stuck in his throat. He could not tell if he was struck silent from the fear of Henry accidentally hearing him or if he simply had no courage to speak.

"Are you still there?" Mary asked.

"Yes," Matthew croaked. "I'm sorry – I have to go now. Take care of yourself."

"I will," Mary replied softly. "Goodbye."

Matthew remained with the phone pressed to his ear until he heard the click of the other phone. Hardly two minutes had passed since he first heard her. And now she was gone again.

He dropped the phone back onto the reciever, then slammed his hand against the wall. He breathed hard, his eyes stinging with tears.

He never should have left her, he told himself. He never should have abandoned her. If he hadn't left her standing under that tree at the garden party, walked away without a backward glance … if he hadn't gone away to war, met Lavinia, married her … if he hadn't let Mary go, she never would have married that monster.

Matthew slumped to the floor, shaking. Thoughts of what if, what could have been, raged in his head. What if Mary's situation was his fault? What if he was to blame? How could he help her if he was somehow responsible for her pain?

His thinking was not at all logical, for how could he predict those events that afternoon at the garden party? He knew that, of course, deep down – but his distress did not allow him to think rationally. In his mind, he was at fault.

* * *

"You're not still reading that, are you?" Tom asked. Sybil was hunched over the English law book that Tom had collected for her, minding the roast vegetables on the stove at the same time.

"I won't stop until I've read it all," Sybil answered.

She had bookmarked several sections that she thought might be important, but nothing had appeared as a real solution as of yet. There were plenty of sections on divorce law, but a lot of it seemed to be centered on if one party was unfaithful or violent; there had to be substantial evidence for either misdeed. Even if a husband was adulterous, additional faults would likely have to be made (a notion which Sybil found incredulous). It didn't matter if a wife was simply unhappy or if both parties simply wanted to separate; divorce depended on there being a guilty party. Sybil scoured the rest of the book, just to see if there was a clause somewhere else that could result in an easy divorce, but there was little that gave her reason to keep believing that.

"Unless there's proof that Henry's been unfaithful _and_ violent to Mary, there's not much else that could be used as grounds for divorce," Sybil sighed. "It doesn't matter that Mary's unhappy, it's like there has to be proof that someone did something wrong."

"So unless Henry is seen leaving a hotel with another woman or … beats Mary," Tom said, "the courts won't let it happen?"

"Exactly." Sybil shook her head. "It's absurd. It's like this law was made in the last century."

"I think it was written in the last century."

"Well, it ought to be changed by now." Sybil pushed the book aside as she took the pan off the stove. "Supper's almost ready."

Tom didn't want to say that Sybil had defeat in her eyes – she was never completely defeated – but there was yet another roadblock in giving Mary back her happiness. "If she can't get a divorce, then what?" He sat down at the table. Malachy was already in his high seat, babbling nonsense.

"Then I don't know," Sybil muttered. "I know I can't stop until Mary is happy again. She's my sister, and despite how she can be she deserves to be happy. But … sometimes it feels like the world won't allow her to be. If you only go by the law, then she's stuck with Henry."

"And we can't assassinate him," Tom said. "Obviously."

"And we can't do anything that gets Mary into trouble too," Sybil said. "No, we have to expose Henry for who he really is. If people knew how he really is, they might allow Mary to at least leave him."

"Easier said than done," Tom muttered. "I've read a lot of articles about him, and the public loves him. He's a star in London."

"But he's a bully in the home," Sybil said. "Surely he didn't become a bastard after he married Mary. What if someone he knew before knows what he's really like? A former friend, or an old beau?"

Tom frowned. "You're saying that if you dig something up from his past, and publish it, something might come up that shows everyone what he's really like? It's a long shot, and it might yield nothing."

"And yet possibly something," Sybil insisted. "If we don't try and find something, then we've got nothing else."

"But how do we go looking for something in someone's past? I don't think there's any libraries books about building a machine to go back in time."

"No there aren't, but there is someone who _might_ help us," Sybil said. "He may or may not want to help us. But he's good at digging up people's pasts. Especially if they're scandalous pasts."

Tom realized what Sybil was impliying, and appropriately groaned. "No, you're not thinking of – Sybil, that's mad!"

"It is mad," Sybil agreed. "The whole thing is mad. But desperate times call for desperate measures."

Desperate didn't even begin to describe what she had in mind. One had to be at their wit's end to go to Sir Richard Carlisle for help. Sybil disliked him, and she equally disliked the thought of going to meet with him. And with his history with Mary Crawley, Sybil didn't expect him to agree to anything.

But if she didn't try, then Mary's cause was lost.


	14. Chapter 14

_First of all, thank you so much to all my reviewers who gave me such wonderful words of encouragement and understanding. I appreciated all of them and am glad to have such lovely readers! I'm getting help but life is still rough, but I will still try to make writing a priority. Second, I know the slow-burn of Mary seeing Matthew again has been going on for a while, but trust me ... your patience may be rewarded very soon! And the next chapter should be up in another week or two, so stay tuned._

 _Thanks for reading, and keep up the lovely reviews!_

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

Since the end of the war, the gossip columns of London newspapers were all the rage again. People were no longer concerned with battles and the political machinations of other countries. Now they wanted stories about celebrities, the flapper lifestyle, jazz clubs, and London night life. Tales of drunken debauchery at bottle parties were regaled in the more scandalous papers, while more reputable publications settled for reporting the lives of film stars and local bigwigs. Sir Richard Carlisle's newspapers practically spewed out these sorts of stories: since the beginning of the decade, there was never a want for good gossip, even when great lengths had to be taken to get it. The lives of the wealthy aristocracy still had some weight, but there was no great clamour for them as had been the case before and during the war.

Overall, business was good for Sir Richard, and his income was exorbitant. Few still took issued with the fact that he was a self-made man, his fortune acquired rather than inherited. He was not one to dwell on issues of the past, instead considering it better business to look to the future.

Which was why it was an awful surprise to see someone from a past he'd rather forget walk into his office.

His young secretary was actually the first one to enter his office that morning. "I'm very sorry sir, but there's a young lady here and she's very insistent on seeing you," she said meekly.

Sir Richard, only halfway through his cup of tea, frowned. He glanced at his pocketwatch, where the hands pointed to quarter past ten. "I've not had anyone scheduled before one o'clock today."

"I understand sir. Shall I dismiss her?"

Sir Richard was about to nod, but his secretary was pushed aside by another woman. He nearly spilled his tea upon recognizing who it was.

"Hello, Sir Richard," Sybil Crawley said.

Blinking in shock, Sir Richard stood up. "Lady Sybil," he said as courteously as he could muster. "How are you?"

"Quite well, actually. Given that I left Dublin early yesterday morning and spent the whole day travelling to London, only getting into my hotel room close to midnight. People still look down on a woman travelling alone."

Sir Richard took in a deep breath. "I assume your husband is back in Ireland then?"

"He is. He is taking care of our son," Sybil answered. "And it's Mrs Branson now, thank you. Not Lady Sybil." She gave him a look that told him he'd make a mistake in sending her out.

Sir Richard remembered well the 'incident' of Lady Sybil marrying the former chauffeur. They had gone to Dublin to marry shortly before Lady Mary ditched Sir Richard. It caused a sensation in Yorkshire, although it managed to escape the interest of the rest of London.

"Would you like to sit down, Mrs Branson?" Sir Richard offered. "And would you care for some tea?"

"That would be lovely, thank you," Sybil said, in a more gentle tone of voice. Sir Richard's secretary retreated back to the hall. He waited until Sybil was seated in front of his desk before pouring her a cup of tea.

Here he was, serving tea to one of Lord Grantham's girls, after he'd sworn never to have anything to do with the Crawleys again. He had sworn he was done with that business entirely, and he was certain that the Crawleys wanted to do nothing more with him either. So what could Sybil Crawley possibly want with him? If she wanted to chew him out for treating her sister the way hes had when they were engaged, she could have done so years ago.

"Is it appropriate to ask why you are paying this visit, Mrs Branson?" he asked, cautious but still in his usual gentlemanly manner.

Sybil took a sip of tea before answering. "I'm here to ask for your help, Sir Richard."

That was not what he was expecting at all. "Oh?"

"You have to understand, this is my last resort," Sybil explained. "I wouldn't have come here if I hadn't already exhausted myself with all other options. I know that, after how things went with you and my sister, you might not want to help."

Sir Richard sat himself down. "I don't hold any grudge against your sister Lady Mary. Not anymore."

"I know you don't," Sybil replied. "You never published her scandal, even after she dumped you and got married to somebody else."

Twiddling his thumbs, Sir Richard said, "I considered it. For many weeks I did seriously consider publishing Lady Mary's scandal. But eventually I decided it wasn't worth it."

"Really?" Sybil raised an eyebrow. "I'd think your paper would flourish after a scandal of that proportion," she said coldly.

"No, I knew it would," Sir Richard said. "But I … I suppose I was somewhat ashamed about threatening Lady Mary with it at all. I wouldn't have bought her affection with threats."

"You realized that after the fact?"

Sir Richard leaned forward in his chair. "Mrs Branson, I'm a man who is used to doing what is necessary to reach my goals, however unpleasant the actions may be. It was not a good practise for courtship, I admit, but it was my nature to be that way."

Sybil looked at him sternly; the teacup in her hand rattled against the saucer. "I find that hard to believe. Men are capable of being rational. And you should know the difference between business and marriage."

"Please don't lecture me, Mrs Branson. Just get to your point."

"Alright then. Mary wants a divorce. But she cannot get one."

This surprised Sir Richard. "Why not?"

"Mary is terribly unhappy in her situation. She wants to leave her husband, preferably before her baby is born. Since Henry hasn't committed adultery or physically abused her, it would be quite impossible to grant her a divorce."

"Her husband is Henry Talbot, if I'm not mistaken. The automobile racer?"

Sybil nodded. "The very same."

Sir Richard leaned back in his chair. "He's very popular in the paper, and Lady Mary is often mentioned with him. They're often touted as an ideal couple. A divorce between them would be a scandal, but not the type people like to read about."

"I know that," Sybil said.

"I'm still not certain as to why you're coming to me about this," Sir Richard said. "Does Lady Mary even know about this?"

"No, and I think it's better if she doesn't," Sybil explained. "I know it sounds dishonest, me going behind her back with a personal matter, but I'm awfully afraid she's given up hope. It's a distressing matter for her." Sybil took back her cup and had another sip of tea, perhaps to brace herself. "But I don't want to talk anymore about her state of mind. It's what I need you to do that's important."

Sir Richard waited for her to explain, though he was already weighing in his mind whether he should agree or not.

"I can't help but wonder if there were something or someone from Henry's past – a former girlfriend or an old beau of his – that might prove he's not quite as saintly as the papers make him out to be. There must be someone out there who knows that underneath that media persona he's really a bully and an abuser."

Sir Richard almost laughed. "That's it? You're asking for me to dig up some rumours on Henry Talbot?" Sybil looked offended, and he grunted a stiff apology. "Your request was not quite as difficult as you made it out to be, that's all."

Sybil shook her head. "I don't believe _that_ will be the hard part. I think that proving to everyone else who he really is will be the test."

"You may be right about that. But people will also gobble up the nastiest scandals, more so than ever. In fact, if I published Lady Mary's story this month, the papers would be sold out from here to Birmingham. I won't, of course," Sir Richard added to counter Sybil's glare.

"Are you asking to create a scandal about Henry Talbot?"

"If there's nothing that would amount to one from my findings, then perhaps," Sir Richard said. "After all, your goal is Talbot's ruination, and scandal is the surest way to secure that."

Now Sybil looked unsure, so Sir Richard continued. "Mrs Branson, this world doesn't bat an eyelid at a man hurting his wife, or a woman not being happily married. It's almost expected now that a marriage may include some strife on the woman's part. The young people, including yourself of course, are intending to change that, but the traditional outlook will take decades to unravel. Now, for many people, it would be surprise to learn that London society's star racer is mean to his wife, but it would not be a great shock, and likely it would not change their opinion of him. The news would be forgotten within hours. No, to create a shock of the magnitude you desire, some fabrication or exaggeration of events may be required. Can you live with that? Is your sister's happiness worth that?"

With a scowl still on her face, Sybil nodded. "You must promise that Mary will not pay any price for this. Henry is all I'm after."

"Certainly," Sir Richard promised. "And to make it easier on you, I won't mention a word of your involvement to anybody else."

"Thank you," Sybil sighed. She opened her handbag. "I don't have much payment to offer you—"

"No, I don't need any payment."

Sybil looked up, wallet half removed from her bag. "You don't—?"

"No," Sir Richard. "I will do this pro bono."

"Well, _that_ is a surprise." Looking relieved, Sybil returned her wallet to her handbag. "I didn't think self-made men turned down money."

"Consider it my making amends for what I did to your sister," Sir Richard said. "She would have had an unhappy marriage with me. But I don't want her trapped in one with someone else."

Sybil did smile at that. "That's actually very kind of you."

"I'm capable of it from time to time."

Sir Richard stood when Sybil rose from her chair. "Thank you so much," she said calmly, though it was clear to Sir Richard that her heart was full to bursting. "Please, let me know what you find out."

"I will write a weekly summary to you." Sir Richard walked her to the door. "Enjoy your time in London, Mrs Branson."

When he closed his office door, he could hear Sybil's footsteps quickly receding down the hall. He sat back down at his desk and pulled out a hidden drawer on the side, which was someone stuck from disuse.

Inside were pictures, photos from times he'd rather forget. He pulled several out, fingered through them. Reginald Swire and his wife, along with their daughter Lavinia at age five – all deceased now. His University of Edinburgh friends, some taken by the war. And the last one, Lady Mary's portrait.

Since breaking off the engagement with Mary, Sir Richard wondered if he'd ever learn to love the right way. He had in fact been in love with Mary – enticed by her beauty, her ferocity, her grace and confidence – yet he had not loved her. To be in love and to love were two very different things. To love was to give one's whole soul to another person, to cherish all the good in them and protect them from every harm. He had not done that for Mary. He had been in love the way a racer might be in love with a car: a shiny object for them to own, its every move controlled. Perhaps if he had seen before that no woman should be forced into marriage, he could have spared himself the embarassment of separating from Mary.

If this task was his atonement for the way he had treated her, then he'd do his best to complete it. When all was said and done, Henry Talbot would be practically chased out of London.

* * *

Mary jolted awake to pain lancing through her like a spear.

She gasped aloud and clutched her stomach, her eyes screwing shut as she felt another shooting pain followed by excruciating cramping. It felt like everything in her abdomen was twisting up, or like someone was squeezing her too tightly. It was similar to the pain that she had felt when she was seven or so and took ill from eating a spoiled oyster – only she was certain this pain was not from the lamb she had eaten for dinner. The pain was centered below her stomach, right where she knew her uterus was.

She let out a cry of confusion and of fear. What was going on? What was this pain? She tried to take in a few breaths, calm herself down, but another shooting pain forced out another sob.

 _Oh God_ , she thought as she tried to lift herself up, with quite a bit of discomfort with her cramping uterus _. Oh God, what's happening?_

Her first thought was that she was miscarrying – a thought that should have been welcome, but the pain was making it hard for her to feel anything but fear. She knew she should check for blood, but she could hardly move. It was hard enough just sitting upright as her insides cramped more furiously than she had ever felt before. Normal monthlies were bad enough, but this … oh God, why did she have to endure this?

"Darling?" Henry murmured. He saw her sitting up, her hand over her stomach and her eyes screwed up. "Mary? Are you alright? What's wrong?"

Mary shook her head. "It's … oh, oh God!" She groaned as another spasm seared through her. How long was this going to last? Would she need to go to hospital for this?

"Mary, what's wrong? Is it the baby? Have you lost it?"

"I – I don't know – I can't tell."

Henry jumped out of bed, running around to her side. "Mary, tell me what to do. Do you need the doctor?"

Mary hated the thought of the doctor being called to her home in the middle of the night, but if the pains went on for much longer she knew she'd be in trouble. "Alright – go and phone him, please – and get my maid."

Henry nodded. "I'll get your maid first, I don't want to leave you alone for long. Oh no, I hope the baby's not lost—"

"Go, Henry!" Mary shrieked, nearly on the verge of tears. She didn't give a damn about the 'baby,' all she wanted to know if _she_ was in danger.

"Alright, Mary, just stay calm," Henry told her. He hurried out the bedroom door, and Mary could hear his feet pounding down the corridor.

She grasped hard at the bedpost, trying to take in deep breaths as Sybil had advised her to do when she was panicking. It was hard to ignore the twisting feeling inside her and focus instead on her breathing, but it was easier to bear the pain when she wasn't holding her breath. Still, a few tears ran from the corners of her eyes and down her cheekbones, brought on more from her fright than the agony she was enduring. She had no idea what was happening – she thought she was past the danger of miscarrying, and surely it was too soon to start having false contractions since she was only four months gone. All she could do was pant and grit her teeth as the constricting sensations came and went.

Her maid rushed in, carrying a towel and a glass of water. "Oh, good heavens!" She set the glass of water down on the nightstand and dipped the towel in it. "Now just stay calm, m'lady, just let me cool you down a bit. Mr Talbot's telephoning for a doctor right now—"

Mary gasped as another painful twinge speared through her just as her maid was wetting her forhead; instinctively she swatted her arm away. "Don't – just don't touch me, please!"

"Just try to keep breathing, m'lady," her maid said as she set the towel down.

Mary tried again to focus on her breathing, but her confusion about what was going on in her abdomen was distracting her. She felt dizzy and weak, like she was about to faint, and she clutched at the bedpost as if it would keep her from swooning and falling to the floor.

"Tell me what you need, ma'am," her maid was saying. Her voice sounded fuzzy.

"I just … I need the doctor," Mary murmured. " _Urgh_ … I _need_ him _right now_."

"I told you, Mr Talbot's telephoning for him. I'm sure he'll be here as soon as he can."

Mary nodded, taking a gulp of air. "God … oh God, I don't know why it's hurting so much!"

She turned her head as Henry rushed back into the door. "I've telephone for Dr Ryder, he's coming right over. Thank goodness he was up at this hour, he was looking after another mother in the home—"

"How soon will he get here?" Mary asked frantically.

"He said he shouldn't be long," Henry answered. "What do you need? Do you want me to stay with you?"

"No!" Mary cried. "Just leave me alone for once! Go – just go …"

Henry stepped back, looking as if he had been slapped in the face. "Darling, you must calm down, I don't think—"

"I'll look after her," Mary's maid said. "She'll be fine, she doesn't need too many people crowding around her."

Henry glanced around the bedroom and opened his mouth as if he wanted to comment on how there was no one else in the room, and it was quite big enough anyhow. "Fine, I go downstairs and let Dr Ryder in when he gets here."

Mary nodded. "Thank you," she said, attempting to sound grateful.

Her husband retreated without another word, to Mary's relief. One more word or false gesture of compassion and she might have lost her temper again, thrown the glass of water at him or screamed for him to get out of the house entirely.

She waited for what felt like forever, her maid still kneeling and gently holding her arms, shushing her and reminding her to keep breathing. After a while the pain seemed to lessen, though only a little, and the twinges kept coming on and off. By the time she heard the front door open downstairs her head was still swimming, and she was still wincing from the most recent constriction as Dr Ryder came into the bedroom with his case.

"There now, ma'am, you're quite alright," he said in half-hearted comfort. "You're quite safe here. Your husband's downstairs, and I've told him not to come up while I'm taking a look at you."

Mary nodded, glad that Henry wouldn't come bursting back into the bedroom for the time being.

The doctor opened his case and took the maid's place in front of Mary. "I'm going to give you a relaxant, so that you won't be in so much pain."

He pulled out a vial and a syringe, and Mary did not look as he pushed the needle into her arm. It took a few moments, but she could eventually feel every muscle in her body go lax.

For the next while, she had to bear the doctor touching round her stomach, pressing in certain areas, then lying down and allowing him to inspect between her legs. He asked her a few questions, such as when the pains started, if they were centered near her womb or all around her stomach. Mary could barely mumble a coherant answer due to the relaxant.

Finally Dr Ryder straightened up and a gave a sigh. "I want to take you to the maternity hospital, just for observation for the rest of the night. I want to be sure that these pains are only just the womb expanding and not due to another problem."

"Womb expanding?" Mary frowned.

"Carrying a baby puts a lot of pressure on this area, and as the womb grows the ligaments must stretch to support it. That is likely the cause for your pain, but stress and discomfort can make the pain seem more intense," Dr Ryder explained. "This is all perfectly normal, but because the pain was so acute and, as you described, were like contractions, I simply want to take you to the maternity hospital to be completely sure. I think if everything is alright you'll be able to go home tomorrow, in the afternoon."

He smiled to reassure Mary as he shut his bag. "We can go in my car, and I'll drive you straight there. I'll go downstairs to talk to your husband about it."

"What if—?" Mary asked, Dr Ryder stopping short of the doorway. "What if he refuses?"

"Why should he, if it's doctor's orders?" Dr Ryder chuckled. "Don't worry, I'll make sure he understands."

He left to go downstairs, and in the meantime Mary's maid quickly packed a small bag with an extra nightdress and clothes for tomorrow. Mary got out of her current nightgown and put on a loose dress – no corset or tight underpinnings – and a coat, though as she was walking down the stairs she still felt oddly naked and vulnerable.

The doctor was speaking in hushed tones to Henry. When Mary reached the bottom of the stairs, still hanging on to the arm of her maid, Henry turned around and kissed her on the cheek. "You'll be alright, darling. I'll come as soon as I can."

Mary nodded, her face sticky from dried tears. She was exhausted from the pain and wanted to go back to sleep, but she allowed herself to be guided outside and into Dr Ryder's car. Henry watched from the doorway, not looking away until the car pulled away from the kerbside.

The fifteen minute trip to Dr Ryder's clinic was interupted halfway through. The jostling of the car had upset Mary's stomach, and she retched up part of her lamb dinner onto the leather seat. She was terrifically dizzy and she swayed on her feet when the car finally arrived at the clinic, and she couldn't form words with her mouth still coated in bile. Two nurses had to come out and help her up the stairs and into the clinic.

Everything that happened afterwards was a blur: Mary knew her mouth was cleaned out and she got into another nightgown and robe. She was put into bed, where she was dozing in and out of consciousness even as Dr Ryder inspected her. Her stomach churned and her breathing felt shallow – she didn't know what was happening or if she'd be able to go home in the morning, and there was a tiny fear in the back of her mind saying "what if you don't survive the night?"

The thought of dying nearly made her retch again. What would happen to Matthew if he opened his morning paper and read "Earl's Daughter Dead From Mysterious Pain"? She couldn't do that to him!

She had fallen asleep at some point, for when she woke with a start the orange rays of the rising sun were streaming through the curtains. She sat up and grabbed the water glass on the bedside table – her throat felt dry and disgusting from last night's vomit. Sleep still clouded her eyes, but she saw Dr Ryder coming into the ward.

"Good morning, Mrs Talbot. How are you feeling?"

All she could muster was a sound. She didn't feel any more crippling pain, just an uncomfortably empty stomach and a pounding headache.

"The good news is, you and your baby are safe. I checked you over last night, and I'm quite certaint that it was as I assumed, the pain was your womb expanding. However, I believe that the pain was exacerbated from dehydration. I'd like to keep you here for one day more, to administer fluids, but tomorrow I'm certain you will be home."

"Is that all?" Mary mumbled through dry, cracked lips. "The pain … it felt like something worse."

"It is nothing. Except for your dehydration, I see no reason to worry anymore. The baby's heartbeat is normal. Soon you'll feel it kicking, which again is quite normal."

Mary ran her hands over her growing stomach. It was bigger than it had been last month. One day she simply realized she wouldn't fit into her normal underpinnings. And it would only grow bigger from now on, until the baby was born. She'd feel the baby kicking within her, like a giant parasite trying to burst out of her stomach. Again, she felt like retching. Dr Ryder quickly held a basin below her chin, sparing the sheets from her bile.

"And once you get some fluids in you, the vomiting should stop," he added.

Mary wiped her mouth. "I'm sorry about your car," she mumbled.

"Quite alright." The doctor stood up and set the basin aside. "If you feel up to it, your husband would like to see you today at visiting hours."

"No," Mary rubbed her head against the pillow. "I don't want him … I don't want him to see me like this."

Dr Ryder nodded. "Then you'll have plenty of time to rest. The nurses will be around to give you what you need."

He left, and Mary slipped back into sleep.

She slept through most of the day, waking up only when the nurses came by with liquids and to test her urine. In the morning it was a dark yellow; by the evening it became clearer. She was able to keep down a light meal of toast and eggs, along with a bit of sweet tea. Although she still felt ill, she was glad to be out of the house, and especially away from Henry. During the afternoon visiting hours she was afraid he'd be marching down the corridor, not to be deterred from seeing her, but he was thankfully absent for the entire day. He knew better than to go against the doctor's request.

When she wasn't sleeping, she was thinking. She thought of all the moments last night when she thought she would die, when she believed she'd lose the baby in a pool of blood. Both those things were once welcome thoughts to her, but suddenly … then she had been afraid they'd happen. She had wanted to live. She had wanted to stay alive and healthy, not losing anything. And she had thought more of Matthew than of Henry – what would happen to Matthew if something happened to her, if she couldn't write letters or contact him. He might think she had abandoned him, forgotten him … that would hurt him more than a bullet wound.

When the on-duty doctor checked on her again in the evening, he nodded approvingly. "I'm glad to say you're well enough to go home tomorrow. Just remember to drink plenty of water and rest often."

Mary was glad for this news; she did feel much better than she had in the morning, and she didn't want to stay another minute in the maternity hospital. It only reminded her that she was pregnant, and still so even after feeling like death. "Can you call my driver now?"

"You wish to go home now?"

"As soon as I can," Mary replied. She sat up and moved her legs to the side of the bed. "Please, I want to leave right now."

Not seeing any point in arguing with her, as she was fit to go home anyway, the doctor said, "I'll have the clinic driver take you home when he comes back."

Mary got on the things she had worn when she had been delivered to the hospital – meaning she was with hardly any underclothes. But it wouldn't matter since she was going home, she thought. Henry might be at the bar and she could slip into bed without having to say good night to him or stay awake longer by explaining what the matter was. An entire day without seeing Henry – it was almost as good as a holiday.

The sky was completely dark when she got into the clinic car. This part of London wasn't crawling with the young generation of partiers and drinkers. Except for a very few automobiles and people walking home, it was empty and quiet. Mary hugged the coat closer around her and sighed; she felt oddly peaceful, even in an unfamiliar car without proper underclothes. She wanted to sleep right here, sleep for a long time, and perhaps wake up in a world that was kinder to a person like her.

But she didn't go to sleep, and she kept her eyes turned to the passing views as the car drove by them. It was taking a longer route to get to her house than Dr Ryder had. It was odd, they hadn't passed by this area at all …

Her heart skipped a beat. She recognized where they were.

"Wait!" She leaned forward and tapped the shoulder of the driver. "Can you stop at that house there? The one with the red door?"

She caught the odd glance the driver gave her, but he nodded nevertheless. "Thank you. A friend lives there. I wanted to see him today."

"Do you need me to wait?" the driver asked.

"That won't be necessary."

She got out and looked up at the row of houses before her. The car then pulled away from the kerbside, leaving her by herself on the lonely street. A few of the homes still had their lights on, including the one she stood right in front of, the one with the red door.

This was a mad idea, she knew, and worse, what if Henry somehow found out? Came to the maternity hospital only to find she had already gone, but not at home? No – she wouldn't let things go to far, she wasn't foolish. She would only stay an hour or two, then call for a taxi to drive back home. Henry would see her beside him in bed in the morning, and all she had to do was say the clinic driver drove her back home, Henry was already in bed, she crept in, and everything would be fine.

It was still a mad idea: impulsive, foolish, not something she'd normally do. This carried far more consequence than simply writing letters. If Henry found out …

But he wouldn't. Mary was sure of it.

She walked up the stairs, gripping the cold iron railing to steady herself. She could she shadows behind the curtain hanging in the front window, and she wondered if it was him. It would be him who answered the door; he had no butler, only a cook and one maid. What would she say when he opened the door? Or would he speak first? Or would they both stand there, staring at each other, unable to say a word?

She couldn't afford to wait a moment longer, for the light in the front room flickered off. That had to be him finishing his work for the night, ready to go upstairs and settle down in bed. Mary had to act now or she'd lose her nerve. She grasped the brass door knocker, slammed it down twice.

On the other side of the door she heard footsteps approaching.

* * *

 _A/N: *gasp!_ _* What will happen between Mary and Matthew? Will they talk about the past? Will they profess their love for each other? Stay tuned for more!_


	15. Chapter 15

_Once again, thank you all for coming and reading and reviewing. I hope you all enjoy this nice long (well, longer than usual) chapter and that you continue to leave your thoughts in the reviews. They really are appreciated, and especially since this chapter is a *very* special one. A little reunion between Mary and Matthew has been long awaited since their exchange of letters, and so we'll see what sort of things transpire during Mary's midnight visit._

 _Just a content advisory ... some mild sexy times are in this chapter *wink wink* nothing overtly graphic however._

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

Matthew didn't expect anyone come knocking at his door past ten at night, let alone Mary Crawley.

He stood in shock, his hand still on the door handle, looking at Mary standing on the other side of his threshold. She looked to be in quite a state – he couldn't tell if she was ill, tired, or simply looking as one was supposed to when they were pregnant. She was wearing a coat over her dress but he could still sense that, from the way she hugged herself, she wasn't wearing much underneath. He looked her up and down: no stockings, no gloves, no purse, no hat – had she run out of her house all of a sudden? He had never seen her in such a shabby state, and he was genuinely worried about her.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," she answered softly. "I just … I wanted to see you."

A breeze rustled Matthew's hair and he remembered how chilly the nights were. "Come inside, please," he said, a tad stiffly. He stepped aside, allowing her to enter.

"Thank you." She seemed to relax a little, now that she was in the warm house. She paused, brushing an uncombed strand of hair off her cheek. "Can we sit down?"

"Yes, of course, er – through here," Matthew said, pointing to the front sitting room. He turned on the lamp again. "My maid and cook have already gone to bed, but I can get some tea."

"That's kind of you, thanks."

Matthew nodded. "And something to eat, maybe?"

Mary shook her head. "I really don't feel like eating anything right now. Just tea is fine, though."

Matthew went down to the kitchen, leaving Mary alone in the sitting room. What had happened to her? His hands shook as he poured water into the kettle and set it on the stove. He was thinking of all the horrid things Henry could have done to her; beat her, withheld food, kicked her out. She looked so tired and unkempt, and he never thought Mary Crawley would ever be seen out of doors with her hair undone. Something _had_ to be terribly wrong.

When he returned with the tea tray, Mary was sitting on the loveseat by the fireplace. The fire was dwindling, so Matthew stoked it to keep it going for a little while longer. He had the feeling he'd be talking with Mary for a while. If she was up to talking at all.

"Mary, you – I'm sorry, you don't look well at all," Matthew stammered.

"I know, I must look horrible," Mary said, giving an unhappy chuckle. "I was in the maternity hospital today. I had awful pains last night."

She ran her hands under her growing stomach. "Are you alright now?" Matthew asked. Mary shrugged. "The pain stopped, and the doctor said it was just my womb growing. Right now I'm just …"

She paused, and when she didn't seem to find anything more to say as Matthew poured her a cup of tea. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said.

"It happens," Mary said, pouring milk into her own cup. "It felt a bit like a rest though. I haven't seen Henry all day."

"That's … good, I suppose." Matthew sat down in the armchair to the left of the loveseat.

It might have been the reflection of the fire, but there seemed to be more life in Mary's eyes. Just a hint of life, a brightness that had been dulled during the holiday at Downton. Even though the rest of her face was tired her eyes were wide awake.

"I suppose this is all a bit unexpected for you," Mary said, slightly apologetically. "The truth was I didn't even plan this. I was on my way home when I thought … I thought, why not? We were driving down the street – the clinic driver and I – and I just wanted to drop in."

Matthew blinked. "You wanted to see _me_?"

"Who else would I be talking about?" Mary said with a small smile. "I just thought … I was already out of the house, I wasn't with Henry, and I was close by … I figured if I didn't take this chance I wouldn't see you again for a long time."

Matthew could hardly believe it still. All those weeks of writing letters, imaging Mary sitting before him as he wrote them, speaking to her in his head – and now she _was_ here. She was speaking to him with her sweet voice, her eyes brighter than before. He considered digging his fingernails into his palm, just to be sure it wasn't a dream. Even if it was a dream, he wouldn't want it to end too soon though, and he reached for his cup of tea instead.

Mary sighed. "I hope this isn't an inconvinience for you, I know you must be tired—"

"No!" Matthew exclaimed. "No, it's not an inconvinience at all. I'm – I'm glad you decided to stop by."

He glanced at Mary's hands encircling her cup of tea, and he noticed the white line across her wrist. "How have you been?" he asked her.

"I haven't tried to kill myself again, if that's what you're asking," Mary retorted. "My life hasn't gotten much better, but … except for your letters. I've really looked forward to them. Frankly, I'm more excited about getting a letter from you than I am about having a baby."

Matthew smiled at that. "Well, I'm glad you look forward to them. I look forward to your letters just as much."

"Really? I know I'm not exactly a beacon of positivity in them," Mary replied.

"No, but …" Matthew didn't know how to explain how he felt when he read her letters, imagining her in front of him, saying aloud the words on the paper. And him wanting to hold her when her words were full of despair. "It still means a lot to me. That you trust me enough to tell these things to me."

"Of course I trust you."

Both of them were silent after that. Neither knew what to say, with their own thoughts swimming in their heads, thoughts as torrid as a stormy sea. They both wanted to say similar things, though they were unaware of it, but neither knew how to put it into words. In letters they could think about what they wanted to say, express it in their special way, but to speak those thoughts aloud seemed to be the hardest thing in the world.

Mary looked at a table set in the far corner of the room. There was the picture of Lavinia and Matthew on their wedding day. They posed like rigid statues, though both wore smiles. "You two look very happy there," she commented.

Matthew turned around and looked at the photo. He hardly noticd it anymore, but he took a good long look at it for the first time in a long while. "Yes, I suppose we were," he murmured. "Lavinia was … she looked very beautiful that day."

He meant it sincerely. Whenever he remembered Lavinia, it was always her lying in bed, pale and weak, struggling to breath through a fever at times. Always as a sickly, slowly fading woman and rarely as a living, happy wife.

"I imagine it's very hard for you, living alone in her house without her."

Matthew didn't answer her. He was thinking back to the moment he said his vows to Lavinia, swearing to be true to her and love her until death parted them. That parting that had come sooner than he anticipated. He had been true to her – he'd never think of being unfaithful to her, but … when love came into the picture it confused him.

He was fond of Lavinia, cared for her very much, wanted her to be happy, and for many that meant love. It was a form of love, but not true love. True love was when your soul was bound to another, when invisible ties between two people could not be broken no matter how many horrible things tried to twist and break them apart. He had loved Lavinia, but in the way a friend loved another friend, and not as lovers did.

"What is it?" Mary's voice took him back to reality, and he realized there was a tear in the corner of his eye.

"Lavinia deserved better than me," he said quietly. "She deserved so much better."

"No …"

"Yes, she did," he insisted. "I stayed with her only because I felt it was my duty to her. Because I couldn't abandon her after promising myself to her. Even when she told me I shouldn't."

Mary lifted her eyebrows in surprise. "She said that?"

Matthew breathed heavily, turning his face away from Mary – though she had already seen the moisture glistening in his eyes. "I've never told anyone about this. She said it to me when she was ill with the flu, when we were at Downton. She saw us … _that_ night, when we were dancing …"

Mary looked down at her tea cup, and she couldn't help feel guilt at the memory. "I remember that. We were dancing in the hall … to her gramaphone."

That same gramaphone was shut up in the attic, where Matthew had put it after Lavinia died. Before, it had rested in the sitting room, but they hardly played any music on it. It simply sat there like a ghost, the memory returning to Matthew's mind every time he looked at it. He knew that Lavinia listened to it when he was not at home, for there was often a different record on it, but his own guilt of being found dancing with Mary to the gramaphone was enough for him to despise it.

He nodded. "She saw us when she came downstairs. She told me she had been watching us for a few minutes. She saw … everything. And because of that she said we should cancel the wedding. She told me that we were right for each other, that it wasn't too late for me. Lavinia believed that if I married her, I wouldn't be free to … to love you."

At this point, Mary was holding her breath.

"Lavinia said she knew, she had known all along, that I was in love with you. She didn't think we should marry because she believed I still loved you. If we did, she said, then she'd be stealing away the life I deserved with the woman I should be with."

"But the wedding went on anyway," Mary said, as if he needed reminding.

"I insisted it had to. I said that … I'm sorry that I said this Mary, but I said that you meant nothing to me anymore. That what happened between us before was all in the past. And us dancing … it was just us dancing. It didn't mean a thing. I don't think she believed me, though. But she married me anyway, and we never spoke of it again."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "She knew the truth, that every moment of our marriage was based on a lie. My own lie, because I wasn't brave enough to say the truth. I wasn't brave enough to let her go. I thought it would be selfish if I did, but I must have made her miserable knowing that I'd given up the chance to be with …"

He paused to collect himself, but he glanced at Mary, and he could not continue through the tears streaming down his face. "She was right. I did love you then. And I love you now."

Mary's mouth hung open, and tears were shining in her eyes as well. "Oh my god …"

"I'm so sorry Mary. If I hadn't married Lavinia … if I had told you the truth … maybe you wouldn't be married to that bastard now—"

"Don't say that. You couldn't have known. It wasn't your fault."

"Yes it was—"

"No it wasn't!" she cried. "It's my fault just as much. Because I didn't say anything either!"

Matthew looked up at her. "Do you mean—?"

Mary nodded through running tears. "I do. I wanted to say it then, but I was going to marry Carlisle, and when we broke things off you were on your honeymoon. So in a way, I'm at fault for my own troubles."

"No," Matthew said decisively. "Neither of us are. It's Henry who's at fault. He's hurting you and calling it love."

"I know," Mary sighed. "It just feels like sometimes, if the past were different, we wouldn't be where we are now."

Matthew ran a hand across his weary face, wiping away the moisture from his cheeks. He didn't know quite what to say now. All this talk of the past was paining him, and he regretted his part in the conversation.

Mary noticing his obvious gesture to wipe away his tears, said to him, "I'm sorry. I didn't want to make you upset." She took little notice of her own tears.

"I'm alright, I promise," Matthew lied. He reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out his handkerchief. "Here. You need this more than I do."

Mary whispered a thank you and blotted her eyes and nose. "I feel like such a mess now. And especially with me showing up at your door with no warning. And all this talk, I know it's causing you pain."

"I'm fine, I pr—"

"Oh, stop lying," Mary interupted. "Neither of us are fine. We're both miserable people who might as well have been cursed never to be happy."

She regretted the harshness of her words, even though her tone had been soft. She wrung Matthew's handkerchief, now uncomfortably damp, in her hands. "I should probably go, I've caused you enough distress tonight."

"Please don't, not yet."

"No, I should. I have to go home. Henry might be up waiting for me, and he may call the clinic … they'd tell him where the driver left me – and if he found out about me, going to your house and talking with you … !"

She broke down in a shuddering sob, crying from the fear of encountering an enraged Henry, gripping her with bone-crushing rage and shouting at her, shouting Matthew's name angrily. It was a terrifying thought, and her fearful sobs brought Matthew next to her.

"Mary, you're safe. You don't have to go back to him," Matthew told her.

"No, I have to. At some point I have to," Mary cried.

"Why? Why do you stay with him?"

"Because … oh, I don't know! I'm afraid of what he may do, and I'm not brave enough to run away. He's … oh God help me! I feel like screaming every time I see him. Whenever he touches me I want to scream. And I want to scream every time I think about his baby! He's a monster, Matthew, but I can't get away from him."

When Matthew's arms embraced her, her sobs were quieted, but hot tears still ran down her cheeks. So this was what it was like to feel warm in a man's embrace, to not shy away from intimacy. She was shaking all over, but she did not feel afraid. She felt safe in Matthew's arms, like a child with a parent, or a lover with their soulmate.

She had spent so long feeling afraid of Henry and hating him, she had forgotten what it could be like to feel loved and to love in return.

Matthew held the trembling Mary in his arms, feeling her hot tears on his sleeve and her hands encircle his waist. He remembered seeing her on her wedding day, and there was not a trace of happiness or excitement in her face. She must have known somehow she was making a mistake, that she was entrapping herself into marriage with a wretched man. "Why did you do it? Why did you marry him at all, Mary?"

Why _had_ she married Henry? What had she seen in the man then that could not be found now? How had she been blind to his true, horrible self?

She thought of the first words she wrote to Sybil when she told her of Henry's real self. "I want to scream, but I can't. No matter where I am, he'll always hear me."

* * *

 _It was the first time the shooting grounds at Brancaster had been open to the public since the war ended. The Crawleys had been personally invited for the summer shoot, but many of London's most popular socialites and celebrites had been as well. These nouveau-riche were eager to get a taste of the aristocratic lifestyle, especially since many assumed that that way of life would be gone by the end of the next decade. Among those new celebrities in attendance was Henry Talbot, the winner of the recent race to celebrate the reopening of the Brooklands race track._

 _Mary had not shared a single word with him, nor hardly gave a glance towards him, until the second night, when many of the younger attendees were in the library. Most were there to enjoy an evening of smoking and dancing to the music playing on the gramaphone. Mary sat alone in an armchair, watching the others converse and dance together, when she felt an unfamiliar hand on her shoulder. She jolted, then looked behind her._

 _"_ _I'm sorry if I startled you, Lady Mary," said the man she recognized as Henry Talbot._

 _"_ _Hello, Mr Talbot," she replied coolly. She wasn't in much mood to socialize, and dearly wished she were in her bed at home instead of at Brancaster, forcibly surrounded by strangers._

 _"_ _May I sit with you?" he asked, but he did not wait for an answer before sitting in the empty armchair beside hers. He was holding a glass of brandy. "Are you not enjoying yourself?"_

 _"_ _Truth be told, I'm already tired of this place," Mary sighed._

 _Henry Talbot chuckled. "Homesick?"_

 _"_ _No. Sick of these people, actually." Her eyes darted towards, the gaggle of young socialites arguing over the next record to play. Again, Henry chuckled. "Yes, they can be quite raucous. Not at all like my circle of acquaintances."_

 _"_ _Your circle?" Mary scoffed. "I thought they_ were _part of your circle."_

 _Henry took a sip of brandy. "Actually, I belong to a prestigious automobile club. Newly formed, but some of the finest gentlemen alive are members. It's a very respectable establisment."_

 _Mary made an unimpressed noise. "I imagine, but for an automobile club I wouldn't expect much."_

 _"_ _Then you ought to learn to be surprised more," Henry quipped. He took another sip of brandy. "Maybe the reason you haven't found someone to chat with is because you act disinterested in other people's activities."_

 _Mary visibly balked. "Are you saying I'm rude?"_

 _"_ _Yes, I am saying you can be. I've only known you a day, but I've seen how you can be awfully standoffish and cold." Henry looked fairly pleased at himself at telling her off._

 _Mary bristled. "Then I'd tell you that no woman wants to hear about her flaws from a man."_

 _Henry had the nerve to laugh at her. "You're also one to speak out inappropriately."_

 _"_ _If you're going to sit here and make remarks I won't stand it a minute longer," Mary hissed. She stood up from her chair and stomped over to the drinks cart. The gall of these new celebrities, thinking they had the right to spew nonsense at undeserving people!_

 _If she had been hoping to lose Henry, her hopes were dashed when he followed her. "Oh, please don't be cross with me, Mary—"_

 _"_ _It's 'Lady' Mary thank you," Mary snapped as she poured herself a glass of red wine._

 _"_ _Lady Mary, then. Aren't you aware that I'm only teasing you? This is a way of flirting, don't you see?"_

 _"_ _It's not how sane-minded people flirt, I assure you. We're usually polite to people we want to know better."_

 _"_ _You've been living in an ivory tower, haven't you?"_

 _Mary sipped her wine. "Perhaps, but it's a place where people don't make stupid remarks."_

 _"_ _Oh, come off it," Henry said. "Like I said, I'm only teasing you. Here, we can start over. It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Mary." He extended his hand._

 _Although she was in no mood to take it, Mary shook his hand. "Likewise, Mr Talbot."_

 _"_ _Call me Henry, please."_

 _"_ _I don't think we're friends enough for that yet, Mr Talbot."_

 _Henry stared at Mary, his little finger tapping the edge of his brandy glass. She couldn't tell if he was annoyed or amused at her responses to his prodding; likely both. "Would you like a dance, Lady Mary?"_

 _Mary groaned. "_ One _dance, then I suggest you let me be."_

 _"_ _Alright then. One dance, I promise."_

 _She let him escort her to the dance area, where a song Mary had never heard before began to play. Probably the newest popular record from London, she imagined. Henry took her hand and placed his other around her waist. Mary flinched for some reason, but she paid no attention to it. They started to sway in time to the music._

 _"_ _How are you enjoying the shoot?" Henry asked._

 _Mary shrugged. "I may enjoy it more if I wasn't just standing behind the guns."_

 _"_ _Well, having you women stand with us gives us morale," Henry said. "I should like it if you stood behind me tomorrow. Will you?"_

 _"_ _I might," Mary replied, though in her head she was politely refusing. "Though I doubt you'll need me for morale. I've heard that you're very good."_

 _"_ _Flukes. I've only been shooting once before, and that was before the war. I doubt I killed anyone in the war besides."_

 _Mary blinked in surprise. "You were in the war? Where were you stationed?"_

 _"_ _The north of France, near Belgium. But early on I injured my leg by stepping in a hole in the ground, so thankfully I was spared the rest of the war."_

 _"_ _They didn't send you back after it was healed?" She didn't think that tripping in a rabbit hole would damage one's leg enormously. She looked down at his swaying legs; she couldn't tell which one had been the one that was injured._

 _Henry shrugged. "Well, I managed to convince my doctor to write to the war office and say that my leg was too out-of-shape to warrant a return to the front." He didn't sound at all apologetic or hesitant._

 _Mary nearly lost her footing. "You mean you lied to the war office?" she asked incredulously. "You know you can get into trouble for that, even with the war over."_

 _"_ _It won't matter now," Henry said, again quite indifferent. "My leg is fully healed and I'm back in racing." He laughed at himself, and Mary found herself again wishing she weren't there._

 _"_ _Anyway, I hope you will stand by me tomorrow," Henry continued. "And I know you said you were offended by what I said before, but I think you're an interesting woman too."_

 _Mary raised her brow. "Oh? You hardly know me."_

 _"_ _Yes, which is why I want to know you better." Henry smiled at her, and it was a good-natured smile. "I think you're beautiful as well – a very beautiful woman."_

 _Despite her previous misgivings, Mary blushed. "Thank you for that. But I won't take any more flattery."_

 _"_ _It's not flattery, it's the truth," replied Henry with another genuine smile. "You must have a beau surely?"_

 _Again ticked off by a comment of his, Mary was unsure of how to respond to that. "Actually I just broke off an engagement."_

 _Henry furrowed his brow, seeming to regret asking in the first place. "Oh, I'm very sorry to hear that."_

 _"_ _It's alright. It wasn't meant to be."_

 _"_ _I hope that won't put you off accompanying me tomorrow for the shoot."_

 _"_ _You're awfully stuck on that topic," Mary realized._

 _"_ _Well, you haven't given me an answer to that."_

 _"_ _I said I might."_

 _Henry laughed and shook his head. "Come now Lady Mary. A yes or a no, please."_

 _Mary sighed. He really did not know when to give up. "Alright. Yes, I'll stand with you tomorrow."_

 _Henry grinned. "Thank you. Finally you've come to your senses."_

 _"_ _As long as you promise not to tease me anymore," Mary insisted. "It's getting on my nerves."_

 _"_ _Fine. Will you allow me to flirt, though?"_

 _Mary smiled and blushed again. "Alright. I'll allow it. But nothing too serious."_

 _The song ended, and she broke away from Henry. Like a lost puppy, he followed her back to the drink cart. "What now? I said one dance," she told him as she collected her wine glass._

 _Henry smiled sincerely, yet it was playful too."I just wanted to say … I like you very much. I hope we can see each other next time you're in London." He nodded to Mary, collecting his brandy before moving to the other side of the room._

 _He perplexed Mary, but she was also intrigued. It seemed like forever since she had enjoyed the company of a flirtatious, though somewhat roguish, man. But was she genuinely interested in him, or was it merely the hunger for some attention after leaving Sir Richard?_

 _Whatever it was, she'd be joining Henry tomorrow for the shoot, no matter how she felt about him in the morning._

 _The shoot invited more flirting and flattery on Henry's part, and more polite indifference on Mary's. But her indifference in turn only seemed to goad Henry, and soon they were sitting with each other at breakfasts and teas, and taking walks together on the grounds. Henry was charming and friendly, and his good looks did not hurt his cause either, though his continuous teasing still tended to get on Mary's nerves. But she paid this no heed, for she did not want to risk alienating him. He insisted on having a dance every night and a drink afterwards, and even on nights when Mary just wanted to rest he wouldn't let her go up until he'd had his dance and his drink. She knew, thanks to Sir Richard, what men could be like when they were cross or felt slighted, and she didn't want to try Henry's patience._

 _In many ways he was like her: stubborn, unwilling to take no for an answer, unafraid to speak plainly; but where she was attached to tradition, he was adamant of breaking that barrier down and bringing her into the new age. He showered her with honeyed words and the occasional reproof, praised and admonished her, all while insisting that that was how flirting in London was done amongst the young people. He spoke about his love of racing and his life in London, and she in turn talked about her unsuccessful love life. He always seemed to listen with interest._

 _And when he told her he'd treat her well, give her the wealth and social status she desired, she did not hesitate at the idea. Even after the shooting party was finished he invited her to London, to the fancy parties and to the automobile club, and even to watch him race. Though she did not have much interest in the racing, she enjoyed being shown off at the parties, and she did not even mind when people congragulated Henry for 'snaring such a pretty specimen.' She was swept up by the brightness and activity in the city, a far cry from the quiet of Yorkshire, and when her visit to London ended she found herself wishing to be back._

 _When the right night came and Henry proposed to her, she hesitated. But by then she could not say no to him at all. She did not object when he urged on a quick and small wedding: no waiting around for months planning a big affair when they could be married almost instantly. That was her first mistake; had she waited some months, her crush on Henry would fade and she would see him for what he really was._

 _But by then, the brightness of London had faded, her dream marriage was shattered, and she was trapped. Forced into doctor's offices and operations, violated at nights even when she verbally refused, afraid of inciting his anger … that was the life she lived now._

 _And it was hell._

* * *

"I don't know what happened to me," Mary cried. "I should have been more sensible. It was just a stupid, childish crush, but I … I let it go too far. I should have said 'no' when he proposed. I had my doubts even then, but I said nothing."

"Mary, it isn't your fault. He tricked you. He belittled and lied to you, and you didn't know any better," Matthew tried to calm her."

"I _should_ have, though. I should have known better. I was stupid, and blind, and I've paid too much for my folly." Mary dabbed at her eyes with Matthew's handkerchief. "And now I'm going to have his child, and have to raise it and love it. I know I won't be able to love it."

"You can be a good mother without loving the father," Matthew told her. "But it's still no fault of yours. It's Henry who is at fault. You shouldn't have felt forced into accepting his proposal."

Mary shook her head. "I know it isn't my fault, but it's like there's a voice telling me I'm to blame for my troubles. Like it's Henry telling me off again, chastising me then saying it's because he loves me. He said he loved me, but he didn't show it or mean it." She swallowed. "Or maybe he does love me. But he's just bad at loving."

"No. I'm bad at loving. He's just a right bastard," Matthew countered. "I've seen the way he looks at you. He wants to own you. You're nothing but a prize to him."

He saw more tears rolling down Mary's cheeks, and he shrank back. "I'm sorry. I know that's upsetting to hear."

"But it's true anyhow. I'm nothing but a prize to him. Like one of his stupid racing trophies," Mary said bitterly. "And I almost killed myself because of him."

She turned her head, looking right into Matthew's eyes. "I'm so grateful for you Matthew. You have no idea how happy you make me, reading your letters and hearing your voice on the phone … it was like you were my guardian angel."

Matthew breathed heavily, feeling more tears descend from his eyes. "And you are mine. You've made me feel alive again. Like life is worth something now."

"Oh my darling …"

Any further words Mary had to say vanished as their lips touched, meeting with a wonderful passion and desperation. Her eyes fluttered closed and she wove her arms around his neck, at the same time feeling his hands rest on her shoulders.

The kiss lasted until the need to draw breath became immediate, and even then Mary's lips brush against Matthew's cheek. "God, I've missed that," she murmured breathlessly.

"Missed what?"

"Kissing someone I love."

"Do you mean it?"

"Yes, I do." In a whisper, she added, "I love you, Matthew."

He too whispered, "And I love you, Mary. I have never stopped loving you."

"Neither have I." Her eyes were brimming with a passion-filled haze, yet for the first time in a long while she seemed to be seeing clearly. "Will you … will you go upstairs with me?"

Matthew frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Will you go upstairs with me?" Mary repeated. "To bed."

Matthew let out a shaky breath. "You mean to …"

Mary nodded. "If you want to."

Of course Matthew wanted to. Of course he wanted to revel in the warmth of another human being, to love them like he had loved no other. But with trepidation his hands around her waist ran around to her stomach, feeling the curve of her growing womb. "Will it hurt the baby? Will it hurt you?"

"I don't care about that," Mary scoffed. "I know you won't hurt me."

She lifted up form the chair, taking Matthew's hand in hers and guiding him out of the sitting room and up the stairs. Matthew felt like he was floating, with Mary leading him through the dark upper floor like a creature from a fantasy novel. He was on cloud nine, and he had no hesitations or doubts. She wanted him, and he wanted her, and that was all that was necessary.

Despite never being in his house before Mary knew where his bed was, and she lay down as if to go to sleep. Matthew lay down beside her, cupping her face and kissing her again. "Are you sure about this?" he asked again, still concerned about her baby.

"I am sure," she said sincerely. "I've never been more sure. But I …"

Matthew furrowed his brow. "What is it?"

With a low breathy laugh, Mary said, "I don't know how to start this properly."

Matthew couldn't believe her. "Surely you must … you've obviously done it before."

"I know I have," Mary said with another embarassed laugh. "Only Henry would always start and I would follow along."

She paused, as if wanting to take back her words, but she looked up at Matthew, stroking his hair. "How did you do it with Lavinia?"

When he slept with Lavinia, it felt more like duty rather than passion, and Matthew didn't figure it was a good model to work off of. "I suppose we … we kissed first. And then let things go from there. I don't remember too much, to be honest."

"Oh dear," Mary murmured. "It's like we're doing this for the first time."

"That's what it feels like."

Mary nodded, her forehead touching Matthew's. "Yes. Like we're learning to make love for the first time."

They had both had intercourse before, of course, but they had never made love. Mary's first experience was of infatuation and obsession, and Matthew's was of duty and marital purpose. Love did not factor into either of those experiences, and so neither how to make it. Mary knew what it was like to pretend it, for she had done so a dozen times with Henry, but real love … someone may have well have asked her to swim to France.

She had been deprived of her last chance at love, and so she had unconsciously sought what she believed would suffice instead: infatuation, a crush calling itself true love. That was what Henry was, and he gave her promises of love and adoration that went unfulfilled. A crush that was fated to vanish once the charming facade melted away. And worse, it was abuse that took the place of any true friendliness. It was not punishment enough that she had to bear being with someone she did not love, but that he hurt every part of her soul with no remorse or recognition for his actions.

Her penchant for these men who were charming on the exterior but rotten in the core had nearly ruined her life years prior. Her brief infatuation with Kemal Pamuk had been equally foolish, and she had paid out dreadfully for her mistake. That terrible night still weighed heavy on her mind when she and Henry went to bed for the first time her time with Henry be as intensely painful as it was with Kemal? Would she cry out again? When she admitted these concerned to Henry, he only said those fears were normal. He did not reassure her or promise he would try not to hurt her.

But with Matthew now, she did not feel the least bit afraid. She was ready to bare herself to him, both her body and her soul.

With shaky fingers she managed to undo a button on Matthew's shirt. Matthew did not move as she undid the buttons on his waistcoat and shirt, and when she finally unhooked the last one she pushed his jacket off his shoulder. Matthew sat up and shrugged off his jacket, then his waistcoat, and finally his shirt. He tossed his clothing to the floor, and was about to slip off his trousers when Mary sat up, turning her back to him. She had already slipped off her coat.

"Will you?" Her hand motioned to the back of her dress.

Matthew's fingers struggled to unhook the tiny buttons on the dress. "How does your maid manage this?"

"She went to a school in Paris," Mary said. "She's efficient. Henry hired her. I would have tried to steal Anna away from Downton if I could."

It took Matthew some time to undo all the buttons, and finally Mary was able to pull the dress off her shoulders. She was only wearing a slip, and she removed that too. Matthew caught himself staring at Mary's slender back, her spine as straight as a ruler. Those years of a governess berating her for slouching still stuck with her apparently.

Timidly, he ran his fingertips down her spine. He felt her reflexively flinch away, and he drew back, thinking he had gone to far.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to. Don't stop, please."

Matthew returned his fingers to her back, running down her spine and around her torso. He felt the curve of her breasts and the sharpness of her shoulderblade, the warmth of the nape of her neck, her collarbones … every naked part of her. And Mary reveled in his gentle touch, feeling his fingers slowly running around her body with apprehensive curiousity. It was like he was exploring a woman's body for the first time.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed.

"So I've been told," Mary smirked.

"You truly are."

Doing what his instincts told him to do, and what his heart yearned to do, he bent towards her and planted a kiss on her collarbone. Slowly, gingerly, he moved up her neck and to her cheek, dotting kisses on her skin. Mary breathed heavily, this unexpected but welcome gift exciting her, and as Matthew's lips travelled up her skin she let out a moan.

"What is it?" Matthew withdrew from her cheek. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, I was enjoying it."

"Oh," Matthew said sheepishly. "I thought I'd hurt you."

Mary looked back at him over her shoulder. "Do you really not know what pleasure is?"

Matthew blushed. "I suppose I don't. I'm not good at this, I know it."

"Well, neither am I."

"Should we stop?"

"No. For heaven's sake, keep doing what you were doing."

"Will you look at me this time?"

Mary shifted her body around, facing Matthew as he drew close to her again. His hot breath prickled her skin, and his small kisses instilled an odd warmth in her. His hands ran lightly down her shoulders, around her breasts, before finally tracing her hips. Her dress was still bunched around her waist, but he simply pushed under it to get to her back.

"Wait a moment," Mary said. She stood up and removed the dress and slip entirely. What few undergarments she had on were quickly removed as well, and so she stood before Matthew, wholly naked and unashamed. Matthew stared at her, reminded of a statue of a greek goddess, a perfect figure in his eyes.

Though Mary had readily removed her clothing for him, he was a bit more hesitant to remove the rest of his. But she had beared herself to him, and he ought to do the same. He felt he had to. So he let his trousers and pants fall and stood across from Mary, just as naked as she, though he was nervously covering his groin.

"Don't be afraid, Matthew," Mary coaxed. "I won't laugh at it, I promise."

Matthew scoffed, but he let his arms hang by his sides anyway.

Mary gazed at him. "After Henry, I didn't know if I could look at another man completely naked. When I'm with him, I usually close my eyes. But you …" She didn't say another word, then stepped forward and pressed her lips to his. Her chest was pressed against his, her hands just barely touching the uppermost part of his leg.

 _God forgive me,_ Matthew thought.

They both fell back onto the bed, another passionate burst taking hold of them, and neither could pull away from each other for several minutes. Mary gasped and moaned, and Matthew found himself doing the same. He managed to find the edge of the bedcovers and shift himself under them, and Mary followed him under the sheets. Their legs became tangled up in each other and their arms encircled one another, their kiss continuing until they had to breath again.

"Oh Matthew," Mary sighed. "Take me, please. Don't hold back."

No longer hesitant, Matthew's eyes glimmered with desire as his fingers found the place he knew would give her the most pleasure. She was already wet, and he had to admit the same.

Their lovemaking was not dispassionate or dutiful; it was pure and true, and neither felt afraid or reluctant for one moment longer. The fact that they were cheating never crossed their minds. Their shared realization, that they were where they were supposed to be, meant everything.

* * *

 _A/N: **heavy breathing** i'm making my OTP do the thing! I hope you liked this chapter!_


	16. Chapter 16

_Thank you to all who read and reviewed the last chapter, I was so pleased with the response that it got! Since I'm busy writing another fic for October it might be a while until the next chapter to this is posted, but I hope you enjoy this one. I know that so many of you want to see Mary and Matthew happy together, and I do too._

 _Just a content warning, there are depictions of battery and assault in this chapter, so if you aren't comfortable with reading that you should skip it._

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

Matthew woke just as the first rays of the sun streamed through the windowpanes and cascaded over their naked bodies. His arm was around Mary's shoulders and her head rested in the crook of his neck. The covers were draped haphazardly across the two of them, and they were so mussed up the maid would probably think an animal had gotten into them. Their clothes were still strewn across the floor.

That night had been the best Matthew could remember in a long while.

He looked over at Mary and found her eyes blinking awake. She turned towards the brightening sky, and her face fell.

"I'll have to go soon," she murmured.

Matthew's heart sank. Their bliss could not have lasted long, and again the thought of Henry interuppted the peace. "You don't have to."

"No, I do. If Henry knows I'm not at the clinic, and that I'm not at home … it'll be a big mess, and I don't want that." She pushed herself up and off the bed and went to where her clothes were still strewn on the floor. Matthew watched her forlornly dress, pulling on her coat and shoes with reluctance.

"Would you like me to drive you?"

Mary considered this. "You'll have to be careful not to let Henry see you."

"I'll let you off at a distance," Matthew said. "Or I could wear a disguise."

"If you have a box of stage makeup lying somewhere that would be useful," Mary joked.

Matthew got out of bed and searched through some drawers for clothes. Since leaving Downton, he'd eschewed use of a valet and dressed himself. He felt oddly comfortable walking about naked with Mary still in the room, but after last night he ought to be comfortable with it. Mary looked around her uncertainly. "Will your maid come in here at all?"

"She shouldn't. We should be able to slip out before she notices. It's early enough," Matthew answered.

"What time is it?"

Matthew found his pocketwatch in his coat from last night. "Ten past six."

"Good heavens," Mary remarked. "I'm not usually up before eight. And especially considering how late we were …" She smiled at the recent memory. "I can rest at home."

"Glad that it's the weekend so that I may rest too," Matthew added, glancing at Mary with a smile.

A few minutes later, they were outside and Matthew had collected the car from the garage. The city was nearly quiet in the early morning, much like it had been to Mary the previous evening, only now the spring sun shone brightly on the lawns and row houses, and the lamplight was diminished. Mary did not look at Matthew as he drove, for she was afraid she'd cry as she realized she might not be able to see him again for a long time. She could still write, of course, but a letter was a very poor substitute for a touch and a kiss.

"He's afraid I've been unfaithful," Mary said suddenly. "And now I have been."

Matthew didn't reply. He pressed his lips together, not wanting to burst out with anything that might upset Mary. It was the truth, she _had_ cheated, but it wasn't done out of malice or lust.

"He likes the idea that I've only been with him," she went on. "But the truth is, I was with someone before him. I've never told him, of course—"

Matthew nearly slammed the brakes. "You mean you were with someone before you were married?"

"You sound shocked."

"I'm not shocked at the idea, I'm shocked at the idea of _you._ You never struck me as someone … someone who might want that."

Mary looked ashamed. "It wasn't my choice, really. It just happened. I let it happen."

Matthew pursed his lips. "Should I ask who it was with? Or is that too—?"

"No, it's alright," Mary inhaled a long breath, as though mentally preparing herself. "Do you remember when Evelyn Napier and Kemal Pamuk came to visit Downton before the war?"

"The Turkish gentleman, right? The one that died in his bed there?"

"Yes, that's Kemal. Well, the matter was, he didn't die in his own bed. He died in mine."

This time Matthew did slam on the brakes. He was lucky there were no cars behind him or they would have crashed into his. Needless to say, this revelation shook him to his core. He was more shocked at the idea that Mary had carried a dead body than the fact that he had died in her bed. "He – oh my God. In _your_ – you mean you had to—!"

"Yes, I had to carry him back," Mary groaned. "With Anna and my mother helping."

Matthew raised his brow. "I'm surprised your mother did that for you."

"I was surprised too."

Matthew eased off the brake and the car rolled forward again. "So what happened? He snuck into your room?"

Mary shrugged. "Something like that. He found my room, and … it was awfully clear what he wanted. I wanted to say no to him, I kept telling him to leave, but … he started to kiss me, and then we were on the bed. And I let him do it to me. It hurt, but I couldn't make him stop, and maybe part of me didn't want to stop. Then all of a sudden he cried out and he fell on top of me, and I had to push him off. And I realized then that he was dead."

Matthew was sure if that had happened to him he simply would have passed out on the spot. "That … that must have been difficult."

"It was. And there's more to it. The reason I stayed with Sir Richard for so long was that, I felt I had to tell him my secret, and when I did he threatened to expose me. If I left him, he'd publish the story. Only he never did, thank goodness."

"So he did have a conscience after all."

Mary shrugged. "What I'm trying to say is … my mistakes tend to stay with me for years. If Henry gets wind of this, I'll never hear the end of it."

"He _won't_ find out," Matthew insisted again.

"You sound awfully convinced of that," Mary muttered. "He's come close to figuring out that you're still writing to me, and after that one phone call he spent all day checking on me like I was going to ring you again. He's suspicious of me and I think he's looking for an excuse to cut me off from the outside world."

She felt her throat constrict, and she looked down so Matthew wouldn't see her cry. "I hate him so much. I know I shouldn't say it, but I really do. He's a horrible, horrible person, and I just want to get away from him."

"And you will. I'll help you," Matthew offered.

"I've thought of every possible way I could get away from him, but nothing could possibly be in my favor," Mary sighed. She swallowed hard to avoid choking out her next words. "Some days I wish I had the guts to kill him. Smother him with a pillow or stab him with a dinner fork."

Matthew was about to tell her she shouldn't think like that, but he was silent.

"There's just no easy way out of this. If there's a way at all. Sybil's tried coming up with ideas, but she's come up with nothing either, and she's the clever one."

"Would telling Henry the truth work?"

"No, it wouldn't."

"How do you know?"

"It just wouldn't! He thinks I'm perfectly happy the way I am, if I told him otherwise he'd treat me like a liar. I'm not going to do anything else that will get me into trouble with him."

Matthew sighed. "Alright."

They were both quiet for the rest of the ride. When Matthew turned onto Mary's street, she asked him to stop the car. "I can walk the rest of the way. It's not far."

"Will you be fine?" Matthew asked her.

"As fine as I can be," Mary replied. She leaned over and gave him another kiss. "Thank you. I can't tell you how much you mean to me. Just being with you … it made me feel happier than I have in months."

She got out of the car before Matthew could say anything back. She hastened down the street, heels scraping on the pavement. Matthew watched her until she started up a set of stairs, some distance down the street, then he started the car up again.

He vowed to himself, that by the end of the year, she'd be out of Henry's grasp.

As soon as she opened the door, Mary heard Henry shout her name and practically bound down the stairs. "There you are! I was just about to call the clinic, say I was coming to collect you."

"They gave me a ride back," Mary explained. "They said I'll be fine as long as I rest and I drink plenty of water."

"Well, that should be no problem," Henry declared. "Why do you go upstairs and take a bath and get changed?"

A bath and a fresh change of clothes sounded like heaven to Mary. She glanced at Henry's own attire. "Are you going out someplace?"

"I told you, I was just about to go out to the clinic to fetch you, but seeing as you're home now, I can go to the Automobile Club early. There's a luncheon with a new member, James Collins and his wife."

"Oh. Should I go with you?"

"No, you need your rest," Henry said, much to Mary's relief. "We'll schedule something later. I'll be back for tea, I promise. Have you had breakfast?"

Mary realized she hadn't eaten a full meal since the previous night. "No, I left before the clinic started serving breakfast."

"Ask cook to make you some eggs," Henry said, placing his hat on his head.

Mary had turned away, planning on going to the kitchen, but Henry gently turned her around again by her shoulder, to face him again. "You know I love you," he said, slowly and tenderly. "If this luncheon didn't require my attendance, I'd be with you all day. I missed you all day yesterday."

"I missed you too," Mary said, knowing he was expecting that answer.

"I'm glad to hear it. Remember, I'll be back by tea. I promise. And I want to see you resting with your feet up, understood?"

"I understand." She bore Henry's kiss, taking notice of how different it was from Matthew's.

As soon as Henry departed, Mary went straight to the kitchen. The cook prepared her some toast, fried eggs, and tea, all of which were delicious to her empty stomach. She got in and out of the bath and into some fresh clothes. Once again, save for the servants, she was alone in the house, and she liked it that way. Alone, with only her thoughts for company. It was a bit lonely, but better than having Henry breathing down her neck and watching her every move. She'd have her bit of peace, at least until teatime.

She read in her bedroom for the rest of the morning, then wrote a letter to her parents, detailing the preparations for the baby. Henry wanted it to be had at home, and Mary was glad for this decision, for she didn't like the concept of having at the maternity hospital. She woudn't have to have it there unless there were significant problems. Some midwives would be overseeing the birth, and Dr Ryder was on call if there were complications. It was due in June, so there was still plenty of time to purchase the baby's things and make last-minute preparations. It wouldn't be long before Mary was in bed most of the day, feeling as large as a house and waiting for the moment her baby would be born.

Not that she wanted to be born. If she had miscarried before, she wouldn't be having the fears of dying in childbirth or being permanently scarred by the experience. To miscarry now would be dangerous, the doctor had explained, but she was still disappointed that it was still inside her, healthy and growing.

It would be better if it was never born at all, never existed in the world. It didn't deserve to be born into a world where it was unloved by its mother. Mary had no love for it now, and she didn't believe she'd love it when it was born. She wished she could love it, but knowing that a part of Henry had made it, was also part of it too, meant she'd never be fond of it.

* * *

The photographer from Carlisle's office was ready and waiting at the Royal Automobile Club. He had memorized the identification plate for Henry Talbot's car, and as soon as he saw the car drive up to the club he picked up his camera stand and hurried down the steps, enthusiastically greeting Henry Talbot.

"Hello Mr Talbot – Michael Potter, _London_ _Informer_ – can you give me a quote on your current situation at home?"

Henry looked at the young Michael Potter with nothing short of a disgruntled look. "It's well, thank you. Now please—"

"Well? Is that all? Your wife pregnant, you on the rise to becoming England's greatest racer—" Michael prodded.

"Yes, that's all you're getting," Henry nearly growled. "If you'd be so kind as to leave me alone, I'd appreciate it."

"What about the talk in the club about you wanted to get a divorce?"

"WHAT?" Henry spun around. "What talk?! What are you talking about?"

Michael Potter put on his best face of innocence, remembering the script Sir Richard had typed out for him. "Mr Talbot, some important members have been discussing your intention to divorce your wife, care to comment?"

Henry scoffed. "That's absurd, I've never considered that at all! My wife and I love each other very dearly, and I'd never divorce her in my entire life!"

"But sir, there are rumors persisting that you wish to divorce your wife to marry your supposed mistress, Mrs Harriet Collins, the wife of your new member Mr James Collins—"

"WHAT?!" Henry thundered again. He stormed off into the main hall, head whipping around for the new man, James Collins. "Where are they? Where are Mr and Mrs Collins?" he demanded the doorman.

"In the restaurant, sir," the doorman quivered.

Henry strode angrily into the restaurant, Michael Potter following at his heels and he had barely gotten past the maitre d's stand before someone called out to him.

"Henry, how lovely to see you!" It was a woman, with the new bobbed haircut that was in style and sultry red lips, wearing a dress that was immodest even by today's standards. "So glad you could make it early, darling," she added in a sly whisper.

Henry had never seen the woman in his life. "Who the hell are you?"

The woman gave a little pout that was accentuated by her cherry-red lips. She pretty and glamourous, but her unfamiliarity put Henry off. "Why darling, it's me, Harriet! We were together last night, don't you remember?"

Henry balked. "No! I was at home, for Christ's sake! You're Harriet Collins? Where's James? Your husband?"

"He's right over there!" Harriet Collins pointed to a dull-looking man seated at a table, surrounded by other members of the club. "He's so happy you invited him into the club. Naturally e has his suspicions about us, but I don't think he could care any less about that now that's he's in the club."

Henry looked over at James Collins, then at Harriet. "Listen, I've never seen you before in my life, we've never shared a bed, and I am _happily_ married to my wife! If you have any doubt about that, you can argue with the police, whom I _will_ call if you don't leave me this instant—"

He heard the snap of a camera behind him, and whirled around to see Michael Potter unabashedly snapping another photograph. "And you! _You put that thing away_!" he hissed, practically whacking the camera out of Michael's hands. Michael deftly caught it before it hit the floor.

"Beg pardon, sir!" Michael chirped. "But please, a quote?"

"Your quote can be, 'I don't know any of these people!'" Henry snapped. He spun back around to Harriet. "I promise you, if you and your husband aren't gone in two minutes, I will personally see that the president of the club has you thrown—!"

"Mr Talbot, what is going on?" The president of the Royal Automobile Club stood behind up.

Henry choked out, "These – these people! Mr and Mrs Collins – I don't know who they are, but obviously they are not the—"

The president frowned. "What do you mean? You should know who these people are. You nominated Mr Collins!"

Henry's eyes bulged. " _I did not_!"

"Of course you did, you submitted the papers a week ago. And we saw him on the test track yesterday. Roaring references, I must say!" the president beamed.

"I – honestly, there's must be some mistake!" Henry sputtered. "I never nominated this man for the club."

"But that's why you're here for the luncheon," the president replied, as if talking to a silly child.

"I – I thought I had been invited because … because I was an important member."

"Well, that was partially the reason." The president peered at Henry. "Mr Talbot, are you quite well? Should we be worried about you?"

"No!" Henry cried. "I'm telling you, I don't know who these people are!"

Another snap came from Michael Potter's camera. "Young man, would you kindly put that away?" the president asked calmly.

"Just another photograph of Mr Talbot and his mistress, sir," Michael Potter answered.

As Harriet posed beside Henry and Michael snapped another photo, the president's eyes widened and his brow creased. "Mistress?" he repeated, glaring at Henry.

Henry shook his head. "I just told you, sir, I'm being played with! I don't have a mistress, you know how fond I am of my wife!" He pointed to Harriet and then James. "These people … they're up to something, I know it."

The president clapped a hand on Henry's shoulder. "Henry, old chap, why don't you go splash some water on you, clear your head? Then we'll talk about this … woman," he added in a no-nonsense tone.

Henry opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, trying to sputter out a response, but it took all he had to stomp off without another word. _That bitch, that stupid broad,who does she think she is?_ Who would humiliate him like this? Who at the club had become so jealous of his success that they had schemed to humiliate him in front of the club's president?

In the men's restroom, he did as the president suggested, splashing his face with ice-cold water. Could this be an embarassing dream, he wondered? He distinctly remembered waking up, doing his usual routine, seeing Mary come home … could that all be part of the dream too? Maybe he'd fallen asleep in the car, thought he'd come to the club when he was really dreaming away. That had to be it, he told himself, just a very realistic dream. Then he'd wake up and realize how silly it all was, how improbably …

For who would want to humiliate him in such away? He couldn't think of any real enemies at the club or elsewhere. Did the paparazzi often humiliate their subjects of interest for good headlines? He'd never been cruelly targeted by the gossip columns – the papers _loved_ him. They'd lose valuable readership if his name was slandered.

In the mirror, he examined himself. He put a few stray hairs in place, straightened his jacket, took a few deep breaths to avoid lookin flustered. He told himself he'd sort this out. All he had to do was explain to everyone that he had no mistress, that he had never met James and Harriet Collins, that he was an upstanding member of the Club and of society. And if push came to shove, he'd telephone for the police and have a detective figure out what the hell was going on. He could afford it.

But he got a nasty shock when he opened the restroom door and found Harriet Collins leaning on the door frame.

"Hello there, darling," she crooned.

Henry blinked, then attempted to shove her away. "Get out of here! You have no right to—"

"To what?" Harriet said innocently. "See my lover?"

"I am _not_ your lover!" Henry said, a little too loudly.

Harriet sniffed and gave him a little shove, making him stumble backwards into the restroom again. "Enough games, Henry! You said we'd do it here at some point, and I intend to make you follow through with your promise!"

"I made no such—!" Henry didn't have a chance to finish as his back his a sink. Harriet pushed him against the wall mirror, pining him at the shoulders. "Come on, dear. Just kiss me once. Please?"

"No!" Henry hissed, appalled at such a request from such a woman.

But for some reason, his manhood said otherwise. And Harriet noticed. "Oh my," she giggled. "You _are_ enjoying this."

"Looks can be deceiving," Henry said. But that didn't convince Harriet overwise. She stood on her toes to reach Henry's throat and plant her lips there. Henry tried to grab her arms and push her away, but his knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor, Harriet on top of him.

"Oh darling," Harriet smirked. "Do you think we should push that wastebin in front of the door? So no one comes in?"

"Let them come in," Henry shrugged, "and they'll see what a whore you are! A deranged, filty whore! You won't have your way with me, I swear—"

Harriet silenced him by smashing her lips against his. "Be quiet, or they'll hear and come in."

Henry spat in her face. "Get off me, you fucking bitch!"

That seemed to knock the stuffing out of Harriet. "What did you say?" she whispered in shock.

Something seemed to change in Henry that Harriet couldn't have foreseen. Any dignity or reason he was still trying to hold on to was cast aside in favor of antagonism, violence, and brutality. He'd had enough of this woman trying to one-up him. He'd teach her a lesson she wouldn't soon forget.

Henry wrestled his arms out from under her, shoving her off him and onto the floor. Poor Harriet barely had time to roll around before Henry got above her, pressing down on her head and practically shoving her face into the tile floor.

"You listen to me, you fucking whore. Don't ever go near me again, or I swear I'll kill you! Do you understand me? Do you, you crazy slut?"

Harriet writhed under him, gasping for air. Henry didn't let up, even as she pleaded with a strained, "I'm sorry!"

Henry's rage had no limits, and there was no stopping himself. "You probably aren't even Mrs Collins, are you? You're probably just that man's whore, aren't you? Pretending to be his wife while you're really just some slut who got paid to come here and humiliate me. Well, you're not going to get away with it!"

He grabbed a handful of the squirming Harriet's cropped hair and pulled her up to her feet, Harriet shrieking with pain. Henry thrust her against the wall, keeping her upright by seizing her upper arms and pinning her to the wall. "How do _you_ like that? Not nice, is it?"

"Please, Mr Talbot, stop this!" Harriet cried between quick, panicked breaths. "I promise, I'll go, I'll leave right away, just let me go!"

"No, not yet," Henry said. "First, you're going to tell me who you really are and why you're here? Who put you up to this? Tell me!" He gave her a violent shake, which caused Harriet's head to knock against the wall. She yelped loudly.

"Talk, woman!" Henry grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him, his fingers digging into her cheeks. "Tell me who put you up to this! Tell me, you bitch—!"

Before he could spew out any more hateful words, he heard a familiar click on the other side of the door. The click of the camera.

He let Harriet go, let her drop to the floor like a ragdoll before storming over to the door and wrenching it open. Michael Potter had his camera pressed against the keyhole, and when Henry opened the door Michael nearly fell over.

" _What are you doing?_ " Henry bellowed. He grabbed Michael's jacket collar and jerked his head back. "Are you with _her?_ Tell me who's behind this? Who?"

"Sir, please—" Michael whimpered.

"Talk! The whore won't talk, so you better start or I'll wring your neck!" To drive the point home, Henry slammed Michael against the doorframe and pressed his hand against the young man's Adam's apple. The discomfort sent Michael into a fit of hacking. Henry didn't pay any heed to it, didn't care if the boy choked or suffocated. He'd get his answers somehow, and he'd be damned if he didn't.

"Henry, stop that! Let him go!" Harriet cried from inside the bathroom. She still looked dazed from her head hitting the wall. Henry didn't even look in her direction.

He sneered at Michael as pressed harder against his throat. "You'd better spill it real soon, or I'll swear I _will_ —"

" _Get off him this instant Mr Talbot_!"

Henry wheeled around and let Michael fall to the floor, coughing and sputtering. The president, serveral other patrons, and a couple of servers stood before him in the corridor, all wearing expressions of stunned horror. The president's heavy brow was furrowed, and he thundered, "What is the meaning of this?"

Henry opened his mouth to offer a half-arsed excuse, but the president decided he did not want to hear it anyway. "No, don't bother. I don't care if you have a mistress or not, but your conduct here has been unforgivable. I thought you better than this, Mr Talbot. I believed you could never resort to such cruelty."

"I – I did – no—" Henry stammered.

The president held up his hand. "No. Not another word out of you. You no longer have a place here at the Club. Leave now, and don't even think of trying to come back. I'm sorry that it's come to this, but I cannot give you a less severe punishment. And you'll be grateful that I won't hand you over to the police this instant."

He stalked past the stunned and speechless Henry Talbot, whispering to him, "You deserve it, you monster."

* * *

Mary didn't let herself worry when Henry didn't show up for tea, though she did wonder why he failed to show up for dinner as well. She enjoyed her solitary meals, settling into bed early with a Brontë novel. He'd likely gone out to the racetrack after the luncheon, testing out a new car, then headed to the Club bar with some friends, then dinner … it wasn't often that he lost track of time, but it wasn't unheard of.

She missed Matthew already. At tea and dinner she wished he was there to talk with her, or sit with her silently. She wished he were there to warm the bed, be a comfort to her in the dark. And to hold her and protect her when she heard the front door slam with thunderous sound and Henry's footsteps stomping up the stairs like a bloodthirsty giant.

In the pit of her stomach, Mary was dreadfully afraid. She wondered if she ought to go hide in the bathroom. But he had already gotten to the bedroom door. It swung open and hit the wall, leaving a large dent in the paint.

He'd been drinking, that much was clear. She couldn't tell exactly what, for he simply smelled like strong alcohol. He swaggered into the bedroom, throwing the lights on and tearing off his jacket.

"Those bastards … upstart bastards … thinking they can just throw me out …" he muttered under his breath.

Mary went still, hoping she could trick Henry into believing she was asleep.

"Goddamned bitch … it's her fault … his fault … that fucking whore …"

Mary raised her brow but otherwise didn't move. She shut her eyes, listened to Henry kick off his shoes.

"Fuck … where are they … Mary!"

He shouted her name which caused her to jolt suddenly. Her ruse was broken.

"Mary, where are my pyjamas?" he snapped, his words slurring together.

"On the back of the chair," she murmured.

Henry grabbed the pyjamas and stalked into the bathroom. Moments later, Mary heard him retching. She turned to one side and pulled another pillow over her unprotected ear. Henry wasn't drunk very often, but when he was he frightened her more than usual. He spewed random nonsense, could be unpredictable. But she had comfort that he'd fall asleep fairly soon.

Sooner than she expected, for she heard him snoring in the bathroom.

She wondered if, in the morning, she should ask what he had been mumbling about. Why had he gone out drinking so late? What had happened to make him act this way?

But she knew she shouldn't. He let it slip in the morning if it was important. She assured herself; he'd be fine in the morning, he'd be back to normal, everything would be back to normal …

But she hated her sense of normal. Normal was Henry belittling her then saying he was merely teasing her. It was her trying to flinch away when he touched her, held her, dug his fingers into her skin. Normal was going to bed trying to quell the urge to cry. Normal was standing in front of the mirror, hating every inch of herself. She didn't want normal anymore. She wanted Matthew.

Last night she had been curled up against Matthew's naked figure, listening to him breath as he fell asleep. Tonight she was listening to her husband vomit his insides out in the bathroom. What she wouldn't give to be back in Matthew's arms, loving him as lovers did.

Henry didn't come out of the bathroom for hours. When he finally did, Mary was asleep.

* * *

Sir Richard sighed into the telephone. "Very well, doctor. I'm glad to hear they'll make a full recovery. Yes, I'll have them both rest at home for as long as they need to. Thank you." He hung the mouthpiece up.

Good God, it was worse than he had imagined. All he had wanted was for the young Michael Potter to take photographss of Henry Talbot and Harriet 'Collins' kissing somewhere or else appearing as an illicit couple. Instead, now he had evidence of Henry assaulting Michael and Harriet – who in reality was just a poor reporter who had needed some extra cash and done this favor for Sir Richard. Michael had luckly gotten a few photographs of Henry assaulting Harriet through the restroom door keyhole, and soon the news that Henry had been forced out of the Royal Automobile Club would be going around quite soon.

It was better than he had planned.

Of course, he was sorry that Michael Potter and Harriet – real surname 'Stark' – had been hurt and rather traumatized by Henry's brutality, but this would yield better headlines than a scandal of a married man and a young carefree wife having an affair. It was of a celebrity who showed his true colors, a violent nature that erupted without warning and resulted in a poor young woman sustaining a concussion and a reporter with a nearly crushed windpipe. And best of all, it was entirely true.

His secretary knocked on the door. "Sir? The photographs from Mr Potter's camera have been developed."

"Thank you, bring them in."

She came in and handed him the envelope of recently-developed photographs. Like a child ripping open a Christmas present, he tore off the top of the envelope.

The photographs were gristly, disturbing, shocking. Henry pushing Harriet against the bathroom wall. Henry standing over Harriet, his hand pressing her head into the bathroom floor. Henry grabbing a handful of Harriet's hair. They were perfect. There were some of Harriet straddling Henry, but he tossed those aside. They were no longer necessary. He had plenty of proof of Henry's monstrosity.

His papers would sell like hotcakes, and Henry Talbot would never live down such disgrace. And perhaps, with a stroke of luck, the courts might grant Mary Talbot a divorce if she desired one. Henry might even face a few months in prison.

Whatever transpired after this, at least Sir Richard had his story. And it would be ready for publishing in a matter of hours.


End file.
